:i6HT 


FROM 

Gregory    Paul,    Books 
P.O.    Drawer  G 
Northridge,  California 
^  -       fcv -  I 

r-os^ 
"""" 


HEART-HISTORIES 


AND 


LIFE-PICTURES. 


T.   5.  ARTHUR. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  48  N.  FOURTH  STREET. 
1860. 


Entere*,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1867,  by 
J.  W.  BKADLEY. 

!•  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  Uw 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania, 


.  INTRODUCTION. 

So  interested  are  we  all  in  our  e very-day 
pursuits  ;  so  given  up,  body  and  mind,  to  the 
attainment  of  our  own  ends  ;  so  absorbed  by 
our  own  hopes,  joys,  fears  and  disappointments, 
that  we  think  rarely,  if  at  all,  of  the  heart- 
histories  of  others — of  the  bright  and  sombre 
life-pictures  their  eyes  may  look  upon.  And 
yet,  every  heart  has  its  history  :  how  sad  and 
painful  many  of  these  histories  are,  Jet  the 
dreamy  eyes,  the  sober  faces,  the  subdued, 
often  mournful  tones,  of  many  that  daily  cross 
our  paths,  testify.  An  occasional  remembrance 
of  these  things  will  cause  a  more  kindly  feeling 
towards  others ;  and  this  will  do  us  good,  in 
withdrawing  our  minds  from  too  exclusive 
thoughts  of  self. 

"Whatever  tends  to  awaken  our  sympathies 


V  PKEFACE. 

towards  others,  to  interest  us  in  humanity,  is, 
therefore,  an  individual  benefit  as  well  as  a 
common  good.  In  all  that  we  have  written, 
we  have  endeavored  to  create  this  sympathy  and 
awaken  this  interest ;  and  so  direct  has  ever 
been  our  purpose,  that  we  have  given  less 
thought  to  those  elegancies  of  style  on  which  a 
literary  reputation  is  often  founded,  than  to  the 
truthfulness  of  our  many  life-pictures.  In  the 
preparation  of  this  volume,  the  same  end  has 
been  kept  in  view,  and  its  chief  merit'will  be 
found,  we  trust,  in  its  power  to  do  good. 

T.  S.  A. 

PHILADELPHIA,  December,  ISM. 


CONTENTS. 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORY,                .                                      .  7 

THE    BRILLIANT    AND    THE    COMMON-PLACB,             .  58 

JENNY    LAWSON, 77 

SHADOWS,                 .            .            .            .                         .  131 

THE   THANKLESS    OFFICE,              ....  146 

GOING    TO    THE    SPRINGS,        .            ...            .  115 

THE    WIFE,        ,  .  ..  .  .  .  .181 

NOT    GREAT,    BUT    HJTPPY,       .            .            .            «  194 


VI  CONTENTS. 

THE    MARRIED    SISTERS,            .     ,       .  .                          214 

TOOD-HEARTED    PEOPLE,  ...  .      235 
SLOW    AND    hURE,            .                        ...             250 

THE    SCHOOL    GIRL,               .                        .  .      282 

UNREDEEMED    PLEDGES,                         .  .                         301 

DON'T  MENTION  rr, .                          •  .         .     815 

THE    HEIKJW8,         •           «                        •  •            541 


THE   BOOK  OF    MEMORY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  THERE  is  a  book  of  record  in  your  mind,  Edwin," 
said  an  old  man  to  his  young  friend,  "  a  book  of 
record,  in  which  every  act  of  your  life  is  noted  down. 
Each  morning  a  blank  page  is  turned,  on  which  the 
day's  history  is  written  in  lines  that  cannot  be  effaced. 
This  book  of  record  is'  your  memory ;  and,  according 
to  what  it  bears,  will  your  future  life  be  happy  or 
miserable.  An  act  done,  is  done  forever  ;  for,  the  tim^ 
in  which  it  is  done,  in  passing,  passes  to  return  no 
more.  The  history  is  written  and  sealed  up.  Nothing 
can  ever  blot  it  out  You  may  repent  of  evil,  and  put 
away  the  purpose  of  evil  from  your  heart ;  but  you 
cannot,  by  any  repentance,  bring  back  the  time*  that  in 
1* 


10  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

gone,  nor  alter  the  writing  on  the  page  of  memory 
Ah  !  my  young  friend,  if  I  could  only  erase  some 
pages  in  the  book  of  my  memory,  that  almost  daily 
open  themselves  before  the  eyes  of  my  mind,  how 
thankful  I  would  be !  But  this  I  cannot  do.  There 
are  acts  of  my  life  for  which  repentance  only  avails  as 
a  process  of  purification  and  preparation  for  a  better 
state  in  the  future  ;  it  in  no  way  repairs  wrong  done  to 
others.  Keep  the  pages  of  your  memory  free  from 
blots,  Edwin.  Guard  the  hand  writing  there  as  you 
value  your  best  and  highest  interests  !" 

Edwin  Florence  listened,  but  only  half  comprehended 
what  was  said  by  his  aged  friend.  An  hour  afterwards 
ne  .was  sitting  by  the  side  of  a  maiden,  her  hand  in 
bis,  and  her  eyes  looking  tenderly  upon  his  face.  She 
was  not  beautiful  in  the  sense  that  the  world  regards 
beauty.  Yet,  no  one  could  be  with  her  an  hour 
without  perceiving  the  higher  and  truer  beauty  of  a 
pure  and  lovely  spirit.  It  was  this  real  beauty  of 
character  which  had  attracted  Edwin  Florence ;  and  th 
young  girl's  heart  had  gone  forth  to  meet  the  tender 
of  affection  with  an  impulse  of  gladness. 

"  You  love  me,  Edith  ?"  said  Edwin,  in  a  low  voice, 
as  he  bent  nearer,  and  touched,  her  pure  forehead  with 
his  lips. 


THE    BOOK    OF   MEMORY.  H 

"  As  my  life,"  replied  the  maiden,  and  her  eyes  were 
full  of  love  as  she  spoke. 

Again  the  young  man  kissed  her. 

In  low  voices,  leaning  towards  each  other  until  the 
breath  of  each  was  warm  on  the  other's  cheek,  they  sat 
conversing  for  a  long  time.  Then  they  separated ;  and 
both  were  happy.  How  sweet  were  the  maiden's 
dreams  thatrpight,  for,  in  every  picture  that  wandering 
fancy  drew,  was  the  image  of  her  lover  ! 

Daily  thus  they  met  for  a  long  time.  Then  there 
was  a  change  in  Edwin  Florence.  Ilis  visits  were  less 
frequent,  and  when  he  met  the  young  girl,  whose  very 
life  was  bound  up  in  his,  his  manner  had  in  it  a  reserve 
that  chilled  her  heart  as  if  an  icy  hand  had  been  laid 
upon  it.  She  asked  for  no  explanation  of  the  change ; 
but,  as  he  grew  colder,  she  shrunk  more  and  more  into 
herself,  like  a  flower  folding  its  withering  leaves  when 
touched  by  autumn's  frosty  fingers. 

One  day  he  .called  on  Edith,  lie  was  not  as  cold  as 
he  had  been,  but  he  was,  from  some  cause,  evidently 
embarrassed. 

"  Edith,"  said  he,  taking  her  hand — it  was  weeks 
since  he  had  touched  her  hand  except  in  meeting  and 
parting — "  I  need  not  say  how  highly  I  regard  you. 
How  tenderly  I  love  you,  even  as  I  could  love  a  pure 
and  crentle  sister.  But — " 


12  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

He  paused,  for  he  saw  that  Edith's  face  had  become 
very  pale;  and  that  she  rather  gasped  for  air  than 
breathed. 

"  Are  you  sick  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice  of  anxiety 

Edith  was  recovering  herself. 
'  "  No,"  she  replied,  faintly. 

A  deep  silence,  lasting  for  the  space  of  nearly  half  a 
minute,  followed.  By  this  time  the  maiden,  through  a 
forced  effort,  had  regained  the  command  of  her 
feelings.  Perceiving  this,  Edwin  resumed — 

"  As  I  said,  Edith,  I  love  you  as  I  could  love 
a  pure  and  gentle  sister.  Will  you  accept  this  love  ?" 
Will  you  be  to  me  a  friend — a  sister  ?"• 

Again  there  passed  upon  the  countenance  of  Edith  a 
deadly  palor  ;  while  her  lips  quivered,  and  her  eyes  had 
a  strange  expression.  This  soon  passed  away,  and 
again  something  of  its  former  repose  was  in  her  face. 
At  the  first  few  words  of  Florence,  Edith  withdrew  the 
hand  he  had  taken.  He  now  sought  ij  again,  but  she 
voided  the  contact. 

"  You  do  not  answer  me,  Edith,"  said  the  young 
man. 

"  Do  you  wish  an  answer  ?"  This  was  uttered  in  a 
scarcely  audible  voice. 

"  I  do,  Edith,"  was  the  earnest  reply.  "  Let  there 
be  no  separation  between  us.  You  are  to  me  what  you 


THE    BOOK     JK    MEMORY.  13 

have  ever  been,  a  dearly  prized  friend.  I  never  meet 
you  that  my  heart  does  not  know  an  impulse  for  good 
— I  never  think  of  you  but — " 

"  Let  us  be  as  strangers !"  said  Edith,  rising  abruptly, 
And  turning  away,  she  fled  from  the  room. 

Slowly  did  the  young  man  leave  the  apartment  in 
which  they  were  sitting,  and  without  seoiig  any 
member  of_  the  family,  departed  from  the  house. 
There  was  a  record  on  his  memory  that  time  would 
have  no  power  to  efface.  It  was  engraved  too  deeply 
for  the  dust  of  years  to  obliterate.  As  he  went, 
musing  away,  the  pale  face  of  Edith  was  before  him ; 
and  the  anguish  of  her  voice,  as  she  said,  "  Let  us  be 
as  strangers,"  was  in  his  ears.  He  tried  not  to  see  the 
one,  nor  hear  the  other.  But  that  was  impossible. 
They  had  impressed  themselves  into  the  very  substance 
of  his  mind. 

Edwin  Florence  had  an  engagement  for  that  very 
evening.  It  was  with  one  of  the  most  brilliant, 
beautiful,  and  fascinating  women  he  had  ever  met.  A 
few  months  before,  she  had  crossed  his  path,  and  from 
that  time  he  was  changed  towards  Edith  Her  name 
was  Catharine  Linmore.  The  earnest  attentions  of 
Florence  pleased  her,  and  as  she  let  the  pleasure  she 
felt  be  seen,  she  was  not  long  in  winning  his  heart 
entirely  from  his  first  love.  In  this,  she  was  innocent ; 


14  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

for  she   knew   nothing  of.  the   former  state   of    his 
affections  towards  Edith. 

After  parting  with  Edith,  Edwin  had  no  heart  to 
fulfill  his  engagement  with  Miss  Linmore.  He  could 
think  of  nothing  but  the  maiden  he  had  so  cruelly  de- 
serted ;  and  more  than  half  repented  of  what  he  had 
done.  When  the  hour  for  the  appointment  came,  his  . 
mind  struggled  awhile  in  the  effort  to  obtain  a  consent 
to  go,  and  then  decided  against  meeting,  at  least  on 
that  occasion,  the  woman  whose  charms  had  led  him  to 
do  so  great  a  wrong  to  a  loving  and  confiding  heart. 
No  excuse  but  that  of  indisposition  could  be  made, 
under  the  circumstances ;  and,  attempting  to  screen 
himself,  in  his  own  estimation,  from  falsehood,  he  as- 
sumed, in  his  own  thoughts,  a  mental  indisposition, 
while,  in  the  billet  he  dispatched,  he  gave  the  idea  of 
bodily  indisposition.  The  night  that  followed  was,  per- 
haps, the  most  unhappy  one  the  young  man  had  ever 
spent.  Days  passed,  and  he  heard  nothing  from  Edith. 
He  could  not  call  to  see  her,  for  she  had  interdicted 

hat     Henceforth   they  must  be   as   strangers.     The 
effect  produced  by  his  words  had  been  far  more  painful 
than  was  anticipated ;  and  he  felt  troubled  when  he 
thought  about  what  might  be  their  ultimate  effects. 
On  the  fifth  day,  as  the  young  man  was  walking  with 

Catharine  Linmcre,  he  came  suddenly  face  to  face  with 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORT.  15 

Edith.  There  was  a  change  in  her  that  startled  him. 
She  looked  at  him,  in  passing,  but  gave  no  signs  of  re- 
cognition. 

"  Wasn't  that  Miss  Walter  ?"  inquired  the  compan- 
ion of  Edwin,  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

**  Yes,"  replied  Florence. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  her  ?  Has  she,  been  sick  ? 
How  dreadful  she  looks  !" 

"  I  never  saw  her  look  so  bad,"  remarked  the  young 
man.  As  they  walked  along,  Miss  Linmore  kept  al- 
luding to  Edith,  whose  changed  appearance  had  excited 
her  sympathies. 

"  I've  met  her  only  a  few  times,"  said  she,  "  but  I 
have  seen  enough  of  her  to  give  me  a  most  exalted 
opinion  of  her  character.  Some  one  called  her  very 
plain  ;  but  I  have  not  thought  so.  There  is  something 
so  good  about  her,  that  you  cannot  be  with  her  long 
without  perceiving  a  real  beauty  in  the  play  of  her 
countenance." 

44  No  one  can  know  her  well,  without  loving  her  for 
ne  goodness  of  which  you  have  just  spoken,"  said 
Edwin. 

"  You  are  intimate  with  her  I" 

"  Yes.  She  has  been  long  to  me  as  a  sister."  There 
was  a  roughness  in  the  voice  of  Florence  as  he  said 
this. 


16  HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    ITCTURK3. 

"  She  passed  without  recognizing  you,"  said  Miss 
Linmore. 

"  So  I  observed." 

"  And  yet  I  noticed  that  she  looked  you  in  the  face, 
though  with  a  cold,  stony,  absent  look  It  is  strange  I 
What  can  have  happened  to  her  ?" 

"  I  have  observed  a  change  in  her  for  some  time  past," 
Florence  ventured  to  say;  "but  nothing  like  this. 
There  is  something  wrong." 

When  the  time  to  part  with  his  companion  came, 
Edwin  Florence  felt  a  sense  of  relief.  Weeks  now 
passed  without  his  seeing  or  hearing  any  thing  from 
Edith.  During  the  time  he  met  Miss  Linmore  fre- 
quently ;  and  encouraged  to  approach,  he  at  length 
ventured*  to  speak  to  her  of  what  was  in  his  heart. 
The  young  lady  heard  with  pleasure,  and, -though  she 
did  not  accept  the  offered  hand,  by  no  means  repulsed 
the  ardent  suitor.  She  had  not  thought  of  marriage, 
she  said,  and  asked  a  short  time  for  reflection. 

Edwin  saw  enough  in  her  manner  to  satisfy  him  that 
the  result  would  be  in  his  favor.  This  would  have 
made  him  supremely  happy,  could  he  have  blotted  out 
all  recollection  of  Edith  and  his  conduct  towards  her. 
But,  that  was  impossible.  Her  form  and  face,  as  he 
had  last  seen  them,  were  almost  constantly  before  his 
eyes.  As  he  walked  the  streets,  he  feared  lest  he 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORY.  17 

•hould  meet  her  ;  and  never  felt  pleasant  in  any  com- 
pany until  certain  that  she  was  not  there. 

A  few  days  after  Mr.  Florence  had  made  an  offer  of 
his  hand  to  Miss  Linmore,  and  at  a  time  when  she 
was  about  making  a  favorable  decision,  that  young  lady 
happened  to  hear  some  allusion  made  to  Edith  Walter/ 
in  a  tone  that  attracted  her  attention.  She  immediate- 
ly asked  some^  questions  in  regard  to  her,  when  one  of 
the  persons  conversing  said — 

44  Why,  don't  you  know  about  Edith-?" 

"  I  know  that  there  is  a  great  change  in  her.  But 
the  reason  of  it  I  have  not  heard." 

"  Indeed  !  I  thought  it  was  pretty  well  known  that 
her  affections  had  been  trifled  with." 

"  Who  could  trifle  with  the  affections  of  so'sweet,  so 
good  a  girl,"  said  Miss  Linmore,  indignantly.  "  The 
man  who  could  turn  from  her,  has  no  true  appreciation 
of  what  is  really  excellent  and  exalted  in  woman's 
character.  I  have  seen  her  only  a  few  times ;  but, 
often  enough  to  make  me  estimate  her  as  one  among 
the  loveliest  of  our  sex." 

"  Edwin  Florence  is  the  man,"  was  replied.  "  He 
won  her  heart,  and  then  turned  from  her  ;  leaving  the 
waters  of  affection  that  had  flowed  at  his  touch  to  lose 
themselves  in  the  sands  at  his  feet  There  must  be 


18  HEART    HISTORIES   AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

something  base  in  the  heart  of  a  man  who  could  trifle 
thus  with  such  a  woman." 

"  It  required  a  strong  effort  on  the  part  of  Miss  Lin- 
nore  to  conceal  the  instant  turbulence  of  feeling  that 
acceeded  so  unexpected  a  declaration.  But  she  had, 
naturally,  great  self-control,  and  this  came  to  her  aid. 

"  Edwin  Florence !"  said  she,  after  a  brief  silence, 
speaking  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"  Yes,  he  is  the  man.  Ah,  me  !  What  a  ruin  has 
been  wrought  T  I  never  saw  such  a  change  in  any  one 
as  Edith  exhibits.  The  very  inspiration  of  her  life  is 
gone.  The  love  she  bore  towards  Florence  seems  to 
have  been  almost  the  mainspring  of  her  existence ;  for 
in  touching  that  the  whole  circle  of  motion  has  grown 
feeble,  and  will,  I  fear,  soon  cease  for  ever." 

"  Dreadful  1  The  falsehood  of  her  lover  has  broken 
her  heart." 

"  I  fear  that  it  is  even  so." 

"  Is  she  ill  ?  I  have  not  seen  her  for  a  long  time,"1 
said  Miss  Linmore. 

"  Not  ill,  as  one  sick  of  a  'bodily  disease  ;  but  droop- 
ing about  as  one  whose  spirits  are  broken,  and  who 
finds  no  sustaining  arm  to  lean  upon.  When  you 
meet  her.,  she  strives  to  be  cheerful,  and  appear  inte- 
rested. But  the  effort  deceives  no  one." 


THE   BOOK    OF   MEMORY.  19 

"  Why  did  Mr.  Florence  act  towards  her  as  he  has 
done  ?"  asked  Miss  Linmore. 

"  A  handsomer  face  and  more  brilliant  exterior  were 
the  attractions,  I  am  told." 

The  young  lady  asked  no  more  questions.  Those 
who  observed  her  closely,  saw  the  warm  tints  that 
made  beautiful  her  cheeks  grow  fainter  and  fainter, 
until  they  had  almost  entirely  faded.  Soon  after,  she 
retired  from  the  company. 

In  the  ardor  of  his  pursuit  of  a  new  object  of  affec- 
tion, Edwin  Florence  scarcely  thought  of  the  old  one. 
The  image  of  Edith  was  hidden  by  the  interposing 
form  of  Miss  Linmore.  The  suspense  occasioned  by  a 
wish  for  time  to  consider  the  offer  he  had  made,  grew 
more  and  more  painful  the  longer  it  was  continued. 
On  the  possession  of  the  lovely  girl  as  his  wife,  depend- 
ed, so  he  felt,  his  future  happiness.  Were  she  to  de- 
cline his  offer  he  would  be  wretched.  In  this  state  of 
mind,  he  called  one  day  upon  Miss  Linmore,  hoping 
and  fearing,  yet  resolved  to  know  his  fate.  The  mo- 
ment he  entered  her  presence  he  observed  a  change. 
She  did  not  smile ;  and  there  was  something  chilling 
in  the  steady  glance  of  her  large  dark  eyes. 

"  Have  I  offended  you  ?"  he  asked,  as  she  declined 
taking  his  offered  hand. 


20  HEART    HISTORIES     AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  firm -reply,  while  the  young  lady  as 
Burned  a  dignified  air. 

"  In  what  ?"  asked  Florence. 

"  In  proving  false  to  her  in  whose  ears  you  first 
breathed  words  of  affection." 

The  young  man  started  as  if  stung  by  a  serpent. 

"  The  man,"  resumed  Miss  Linmore,  "  who  has  been 
false  to  Edith  Walter,  never  can  be  true  to  me.  I 
wouldn't  have  the  affection  that  could  turn  from  one 
like  her.  I  hold  it  to  be  h'ght  as  the  thistle-down. 
Go !  heal  the  heart  you  have  almost  broken,  if,  per- 
chance, it  be  not  yet  too  late.  As  for  me,  think  of  me 
as  if  we  had  all  our  lives  been  strangers — such,  hence- 
forth, we  must  ever  remain." 

And  saying  this,  Catharine  Linmore  turned  from  the 
rebuked  and  astonished  young  man,  and  left  the  room. 
He  iinmedw/  ely  retired. 


*.    CHAPTER    II. 

EVENING,  with  its  passionless  influences,  was  stealing 
softly  down,  and  leaving  on  all  things  its  hues  of  quiet 
and  repose.  The  heart  of  nature  was  beating  with 
calm  and  even  pulses.  Not  so  the  heart  of  Edwin 
Florence.  It  had  a  wilder  throb ;  and  the  face  of  na- 
ture was  not  reflected  in  the  mirror  of  his  feelings. 
He  was  alone  in  his  room,  where  he  had  been  during 
the  few  hours  that  had  elapsed  since  his  interview  with 
Miss  Linmore.  In  those  few  hours,  Memory  had  turn- 
ed over  many  leaves  of  the  Book  of  his  Life.  He 
would  fain  have  averted  his  eyes  from  the  pages,  but  ha 
could  not.  The  record  was  before  him,  and  he  had 
read  it.  And,  as  he  read,  the  eyes  of  Edith  looked 
into  his  own  ;  at  first  they  were  loving  and  tender,  as 
of  old ;  and  then  they  were  full  of  tears.  Her  hand 
lay,  now,  confidingly  in  his ;  and  now  it  was  slowly 
withdrawn.  She  sat  by  his  side,  and  leaned  upon  him 


22  HEART    HISfORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

— his  lips  were  upon  her  lips  ;  his  cheek  touching  her 
cheek  ;  their  breaths  were  mingling.  Another  moment 
and  he  had  turned  from  her  coldly,  and  she  was  droop- 
ing towards  the  earth  like  a  tender  vine  bereft  of  th 
support  to  which  it  had  held  by  its  clinging  tendrils. 
Ah  !  If  he  could  only  have  shut  out  these  images  !  If 
he  could  have  erased  the  record  so  that  Memory  could 
not  read  it !  How  eagerly  would  he  have  drunk  of 
Lethe's  waters,  could  he  have  found  the  fabled  stream  1 
More  than  all  this.  The  rebuke  of  Miss  Linmore 
almost  maddened  him.  In  turning  from  Edith,  he  had 
let  his  heart  go  out  towards  the  other  with  a  passionate 
devotion.  Pride  in  her  beauty  and  brilliant  accom- 
plishments had  filled  his  regard  with  a  selfishness  that 
could  ill  bear  the  shock  of  a  sudden  repulse.  Sleep- 
less was  the  night  that  followed  ;  and  when  the  morn- 
ing, long  looked  for,  broke  at  last,  it  brought  no  light 
for  his  darkened  spirit.  Yet  he  had  grown  calmer, 
and  a  gentle  feeling  pervaded  his  bosom.  Thrown  off 
by  Miss  Linmore,  his  thoughts  now  turned  by  a  natural 
impulse,  as  the  needle,  long  held  by  opposing  attrac- 
tion, turns  to  its  polar  point,  again  towards  Edith  tVal- 
ter.  As  he  thought  of  her  longer  and  longer,  tenderer 
emotions  began  to  tremble  in  his  heart.  The  beauty 
of  her  character  was  again  seen  ;  and  his  better  nature 
bowed  before  it  once  more  in  a  genuine  worship. 


THE    BOOK     OF    MEMORY.  23 

"  How  have  I  been  infatuatod  !  What  syien  spell 
has  been  on  me !"  Such  were  the  words  that  fell  from 
his  lips,  marking  the  change  in  his  feelings. 

Days  went  by,  and  still  the  change  went  on,  until 
the  old  affection  had  come  back  ;  the  old  tender,  true 
affection.  But,  he  had  turned  from  its  object — basely 
turned  away.  A  more  glaring  light  had  dazzled  his 
eyes  so  thafjie  could  see,  for  a  time,  no  beauty,  no 
attraction,  in  his  first  love.  Could  he  turn  to  her 
again  ?  Would  she  receive  him  ?  Would  she  let  him 
dip  healing  leaves  in  the  waters  he  had  dashed  with 
bitterness  ?  His  heart  trembled  as  he  asked  these 
questions,  for  there  was  no  confident  answer. 

At  last  Edwin  Florence  resolved  that  he  would  see 
Edith  once  more,  and  seek  to  repair  the  wrong  done 
both  to  her  and  to  himself.  It  was  three  months  after 
his  rejection  by  Miss  Linmore  when  he  came  to  this 
resolution.  And  then,  some  weeks  elapsed  before  he 
could  force  himself  to  act  upon  it.  In  all  that  time  he 
had  not  met  the  young  girl,  nor  had  he  once  heard  of 
her.  To  the  house  of  her  aunt,  where  she  resided, 
Florence  took  his  way  one  evening  in  early  autumn, 
his  heart  disturbed  by  many  conflicting  emotions.  Hia 
love  for  Edith  had  come  back  in  full  force ;  and  hia 
spirit  was  longing  for  the  old  communion. 


24  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  Can  I  see  Miss  Walter P  he  asked,  on  arriving  at 
her  place  of  residence. 

"  Walk  in,"  returned  the  servant  who  had  answered 
his  summons. 

Florence  entered  the  little  parlor  where  he  had  spent 
BO  many,  never-to-be-forgotten  hours  with  Edith — hours 
unspeakably  happy  in  passing,  but,  in  remembrance, 
burdened  with  pain — and  looking  around  on  each 
familiar  object  with  strange  emotions.  Soon  a  light 
step  was  heard  descending  the  stairs,  and  moving  along 
the  passage.  The  door  opened,  and  Edith — no,  her 
aunt — entered.  The  young  man  had  risen  in  the 
breathlessness  of  expectation. 

"  Mr.  Florence,"  said  the  aunt,  coldly.  He  extended 
his  hand  ;  but  she  did  not  take  it. 

"  How  is  Edith  ?"  was  half  stammered. 

"  She  is  sinking  rapidly,"  replied  the  aunt. 

Edwin  staggered  back  into  a  chair. 

"  Is  she  ill !"  he  inquired,  with  a  quivering  lip. 

"  111 !  She  is  dying  P  There  was  something  of  in- 
dignation in  the  way  this  was  said. 

"  Dying  !"  The  young  man  clasped  his  hands  to- 
gether with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"  How  long  has  she  been  sick  !"  he  next  ventured  to 
ask. 

"For  mouths  ehe  has  been  dying  daily,"  said  the 


t 
THE   BOOK   OF    MEMORY.  25 

aunt.     There   was   a  meaning  in  her  tones  that   the 
young  man  fully  comprehended.     He  had  not  dreara 
ed  of  this. 

"  Can  I  see  her  P 

The  aunt  shook  her  head,  as  she  answered, 

"  Let  her  spirit  depart  in  peace." 

"  I  will  not  disturb,  but  calm  her  spirit,"  said  the 
young  man,  earnestly.  "  Oh,  let  me  see  her,  that  I 
may  call  her  back  to  life  !" 

"  It  is  too  late,"  replied  the  aunt.  "  The  oil  is  ex- 
hausted, and  light  is  just  departing." 

Edwin  started  to  his  feet,  exclaiming  passionately — 

"  Let  me  see  her  !    Let  me  see  her  !" 

"  To  see  her  thus,  would  be  to  blow  the  breath  tliat 
would  extinguish  the  flickering  light,"  said  the  aunt, 
u  Go  home,  young  man  !  It  is  too  late  !  Do  not  seek 
to  agitate  the  waters  long  troubled  by  your  hand,  but 
now  suosiding  into  calmness.  Let  her  spirit  depart  in 
peace." 

Florence  sunk  again  into  his  chair,  and,  hiding  his 
ace  with  his  hands,  sat  for  some  moments  in  a  state  of 
mental  paralysis. 

In  the  chamber  above  lay  the  pale,  almost  pulseless 
form  of  Edith.  A  young  girl,  who  had  been  as  her 
sister  for  many  years,  sat  holding  her  thin  white  hand. 
The  face  )f  the  invalid  was  turned  to  the  wall.  Her 


26  HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

eyes  were  closed  ;  and  ske  breathed  so  quietly  that  the 
motions  of  respiration  could  hardly  be  seen.  Nearly 
ten  minutes  had  elapsed  from  the  time  a  servant  whis- 
pered to  the  aunt  that  there  was  some  one  in  the  par- 
lor, when  Edith  turned,  and  said  to  her  companion,  in 
a  low,  calm  voice — 

"  Mr.  Florence  has  come." 

The  girl  started,  and  a  flush  of  surprise  went  over 
her  face.  • 

"  He  is  in  the  parlor  now.  Won't  you  ask  him  to 
come  up  2"  added  the  dying  maiden,  still  speaking  with 
the  utmost  composure. 

Her  friend  stood  surprised  and  hesitating  for  some 
moments,  and  then  turning  away,  glided  from  the 
chamber.  She  found  the  aunt  and  Mr.  Florence  in  the 
passage  below,  the  latter  pleading  with  the  former  for 
the  privilege  of  seeing  Edith,  which  was  resolutely 
denied. 

"  Edith  wants  to  see  Mr.  Florence,"  said  the  girl,  as 
she  joined  them. 

"  Who  told  her  that  he  was  here  ?"  quickly  asked 
the  aunt. 

"  No  one.     I  did  not  know  it  myself." 

"  Her  heart  told  her  that  I  was  here,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Florence — and,  as  he  spoke,  he  glided  past  the  aunt, 
and,  with  hurried  steps,  ascended  to  the  chamber  where 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORY.  27 

the  dying  one  lay.  The  eyes  of  Edith  were  turned 
towards  the  door  as  he  entered ;  but  no  sign  of  emotion 
passed  over  her  countenance.  Overcome  by  his  feelings, 
at  the  sight  of  the  shadowy  remnant  of  one  so  loved 
and  so  wronged,  the  young  man  sunk  into  a  chair  by 
her  side,  as  nerveless  as  a  child  ;  and,  as  his  h'ps  were 
pressed  upon  her  lips  and  cheeks,  her  face  was  wet  with 
his  tears. 

Coming  in  quickly  after,  the  aunt  took  firmly  hold  of 
his  arm  and  sought  to  draw  him  away,  but,  in  a  steady 
voice,  the  invalid  said — 

"  No — DO.  I  was  waiting  for  him.  I  have  expected 
him  for  days.  I  knew  he  would  come  ;  and  he  is  here 
now." 

All  was  silence  for  many  minutes ;  and  during  this 
time  Edwin  Florence  sat  with  his  face  covered,  struggling 
to  command  his  feelings.  At  a  motion  from  the  dying 
girl,  the  aunt  and  friend  retired,  and  she  was  alone  with 
the  lover  who  had  been  false  to  his  vows.  As  the  door 
closed  behind  them,  Edwin  looked  up.  He  had  grown 
calm.  With  a  voice  of  inexpressible  tenderness,  he 
said — 

"  Live  for  me,  Edith." 

"  Not  here,"  was  answered.  "  The  silver  chord  wiH 
soon  be  loosened  and  the  golden  bowl  broken." 

"  Oh,  say  not  that !     Let  me  call  you  back  to  life 


28  HBART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

Turn  to  me  again  as  I  have  turned  to  you  with  mj 
whole  heart.  The  world  is  still  beautiful ;  and  in  it  we 
will  be  happy  together." 

"  No,  Edwin,"  replied  the  dying  maiden.  "  The 
story  of  my  days  here  is  written,  and  the  angel  is 
about  sealing  the  record.  I  am  going  where  the  heart 
will  never  feel  the  touch  of  sorrow.  I  wished  to  see 
you  once  more  before  I  died  ;  and  you  are  here.  I 
have,  once  more,  felt  your  breath  upon  my  cheek  ; 
once* more  held  your  hand  in  mine.  For  this  my  heart 
is  grateful.  You  had  become  the  sun  of  my  life,  and 
when  your  face  was  turned  away,  the  flower  that 
spread  itself  joyfully  in  the  light,  drooped  and  faded. 
And  now,'  the  light  has  come  back  again  ;  but  it 
cannot  warm  into  freshness  and  beauty  the  withered 
blossom." 

"  Oh,  my  Edith !  Say  not  so  !  Live  for  me  !  I 
have  no  thoughts,  no  affection  that  is  not  for  you.  The 
drooping  flower  will  lift  itself  again  in  the  sunshine 
when  the  clouds  have  passed  away." 

As  the  young  man  said  this,  Edith  raised  herself  up 
suddenly,  and,  with  a  fond  gesture,  flung  herself 
forward  upon  his  bosom.  For  a  few  moments  her  form 
quivered  in  his  arms.  Then  all  became  still,  and  he 
felt  her  lying  heavier  and  heavier  against  him.  In  a 
little  while  he  was  conscious  that  he  clasped  to  his 


THE    BOOK    OF     MEMORY  29 

heart  only  the  earthly  semblance  of  one  who  had 
passed  away  forever. 

Replacing  the  ligfyt  and  faded  form  of  her  who,  a 
little  while  before,  had  been  in  the  vigor  of  health, 
upon  the  bed,  Edwin  gazed  upon  the  sunken  features 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then,  leaving  a  last  kiss  upon 
her  cold  lips,  hurried  away. 

Another  page  in  his  Book  of  Life  was  written. 
There  was  another  record  there  from  which  memory,  in 
after  life,  could  read.  And  such  a  record  !  What 
would  he  not  have  given  to  erase  that  page  ! 

When  the  body  of  Edith  Walter  was  borne  to  its 
last  resting-place,  Florence  was  among  the  mourners. 
After  looking  his  last  look  upon  the  coffin  that 
contained  the  body,  he  went  away,  sadder  in  heart  than 
he  had  ever  been  in  his  h'fe.  He  was  not  only  a  prey 
to  sadness,  but  to  painful  self-accusation.  In  his  perfidy 
lay  the  cause  of  her  death.  He  had  broken  the  heart 
that  confided  in  him,  and  only  repented  of  his  error 
when  it  was  too  late  to  repair  the  rain. 

As  to  what  was  thought  or  said  of  him  by  others, 
Edwin  Florence  cared  but  little.  There  was  enough  of 
pain  in  his  own  self-consciousness.  He  withdrew 
himself  from  the  social  circle,  and,  for  several  years, 
lived  a  kind  of  hermit- life  in  the  midst  of  society 
But,  he  was  far  from  being  happy  in  his  solitude ; 


30  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

for  Memory  was  with  him,  and  almost  daily,  from  the 
Book  of  his  Life,  read  to  him  some   darkly  written 

page- 
One  day, — it  was  three  years  from  the  time  ha 
arted  with  Edith  in  the  chamber  of  death,  and  when 
he  was  beginning  to  rise  in  a  measure  above  the 
depressing  influences  attendant  upon  that  event, — he 
received  an  invitation  to  make  one  of  a  social  party  on 
the  next  evening.  The  desire  to  go  back  again  in 
society  had  been  gaining  strength  with  him  for  some 
time  ;  and,  as  it  had  gained  strength,  reason  had 
pointed  out  the  error  of  his  voluntary  seclusion  as 
unavailing  to  alter  the  past. 

"  The  past  is  past,"  ho  said  to  himself,  as  he  mused 
with  the  invitation  in  his  hand.  "  I  cannot  recall  ik— 
I  cannot  change  it.  If  repentance  can  in  any  way 
atone  for  error,  surely  I  have  made  atonement ;  for  my 
repentance  has  been  long  and  sincere.  If  Edith  can 
see  my  heart,  her  spirit  must  be  satisfied.  Even  she 
could  not  wish  for  this  living  burial.  It  is  better  for 
me  to  mingle  in  society  as  of  old." 

Acting  on  this  view,  Florence  made  one  on  the  next 
evening,  in  a  social  party.  He  felt  strangely,  for  his 
mind  was  invaded  by  old  influences,  and  touched  by 
old  impressions.  He  saw,  in  many  a  light  and  airy 
form,  as  it  glanced  before  him,  the  image  of  one  long 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORY.  31 

since  passed  away ;  and  heard,  in  the  voices  that  filled 
(he  rooms,  many  a  tone  that  it  seemed  must  have 
come  from  the  lips  of  Edith.  How  busy  was  Memorj 
again  with  the  past.  In  vain  he  sought  to  shut  out  the 
images  that  arose  in  his  mind.  The  page  was  open 
before  him,  and  what  was  impressed  thereon  he  could 
not  but  see  and  read. 

This  passed,  in  some  degree,  away  as  the  evening 
progressed,  and  he  came  nearer,  so  to  speak,  to  some 
of  those  who  made  up  the  happy  company.  Among 
those  present  was  a  young  lady  from  a  neighboring 
city,  who  attracted  much  attention  both  from  her 
manners  and  person.  She  fixed  the  eyes  of  Mr. 
Florence  soon  after  he  entered  the  room,  and,  half 
unconsciously  to  himself,  his  observation  was  frequently 
directed  towards  her. 

"  Who  is  that  lady  ?"  he  asked  of  a  friend,  an  hour 
after  his  arrival. 

"  Her  name  is  Miss  Welden.     She  is  from  Albany." 

"  She  has  a  very  interesting  face,"  said  Florence. 

"  And  quite  as  interesting  a  mind.  Miss  Weldon  is 
a  charming  girl." 

Not  long  after,  the  two  were  thrown  near  together, 
when  an  introduction  took  place.  The  conversation  of 
the  young  lady  interested  Florence,  and  in  her  society 
he  passed  half  an  hour  most  pleasantly.  "While  talk- 


32  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

ing  with  more  than  usual  animation,  in  lifting  his  eyes 
he  saw  that  some  one  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room 
was  observing  him  attentively.  For  the  moment  this 
did  not  produce  any  effect.  But,  in  looking  up  again, 
he  saw  the  same  eyes  upon  him,  and  felt  their  expres- 
sion as  unpleasant  He  now,  for  the  first  time,  be- 
came aware  that  the  aunt  of  Edith  Walter  was  pres- 
ent. She  it  was  who  had  been  regarding  him  so  at- 
tentively. From  that  instant  his  heart  sunk  in  his  bo- 
som. Memory's  magic  mirror  was  before  him,  and  in 
it  he  saw  pictured  the  whole  scene  of  that  last  meeting 
with  Edith. 

A  little  while  afterward,  and  Edwin  Florence  was 
missed  from  the  pleasant  company.  Where  was  he  t 
Alone  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  chamber,  with  his 
thoughts  up'on  the  past.  Again  he  had  been  reading 
over  those  pages  of  his  Book  of  Life  in  which  was 
written  the  history  of  his  intimacy  with  and  desertion 
of  Edith ;  and  the  record  seemed  as  fresh  as  if  made 
but  the  day  before.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  sought  to 
close  or  avert  his  eyes.  There  seemed  a  spell  upon 
him  ;  and  he  could  only  look  and  read. 

"  Fatal  error  !"  he  murmured  to  himself,  as  he 
struggled  to  free  himself  from  his  thraldom  to  the  past. 
"  Fatal  error !  How  a  single  act  will  curse  a  man 
through  life.  Oh  !  if  I  could  but  extinguish  the  whola 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORY.  33 

of  this  memory  !  If  I  could  wipe  out  the  hand-writing. 
Sorrow,  repentance,  is  of  no  avail.  The  past  is  gone 
for  ever.  Why  then  should  I  thus  continue  to  be  un- 
happy over  what  I  cannot  alter  ?  It  avails  nothing  to 
Edith.  She  is  happy — far  happier  than  if  she  had 
remained  on  this  troublesome  earth." 

But,  even  while  he  uttered  these  words,  there  came 
into  his  mind  such  a  realizing  sense  of  what  the  poor 
girl  must  have  suffered,  when  she  found  her  love 
thrown  back  upon  her,  crushing  her  heart  by  its 
weight,  that  he  bowed  his  head  upon  his  bosom  and 
in  bitter  self-upbraidings  passed  the  hours  until  mid- 
night, when  sleep  locked  up  his  senses,  and  calmed  th* 
turbulence  of  his  feelings. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MONTHS  elapsed  before  Edwin  Florence  ventured 
again  into  company. 

"  Why  will  you  shut  yourself  up  after  this  fashion  V 
said  an  acquaintance  to  him  one  day.  "  It  isn't  just  to 
your  friends.  I've  heard  half  a  dozen  persons  asking 
for  you  lately.  This  hermit  life  you  are  leading  is,  let 
me  tell  you,  a  very  foolish  life." 

The  friend  who  thus  spoke  knew  nothing  of  the 
young  man's  heart  history. 

"No  one  really  misses  me,"  said  Florence,  in  reply. 

"  In  that  you  are  mistaken,"  returned  the  friend. 
You  are  missed.  I  have  heard  one  young  lady,  at 
least,  ask  for  you  of  late,  more  than  a  dozen  times." 

"  Indeed  !     A  young  lady  !" 

"  Yes  ;  and  a  very  beautiful  young  lady  at  that." 

M  In  whose  eyes  can  I  have  found  such  favor  f       «, 

"  You  have  met  Miss  Clara  Weldbn  3" 


THE    BOOK     OF    MEMORY.  3ft 

"  Only  once." 

"  But  once !" 

*  That  is  all." 

"  Then  it  must  be  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight — at 
least  on  the  lady's  part — for  Miss  Weldon  has  asked 
for  you,  to  my  knowledge,  not  less  than  a  dozen  times." 

"  I  am  certainly  flattered  at  the  interest  she  takes  in 
me." 

"  Well  you  may  be.  I  know  more  than  one  young 
man  who  would  sacrifice  a  good  deal  to  find  equal 
favor  in  her  eyes.  Now  see  what  you  have  lost  by  this 
biding  of  your  countenance.  And  you  are  not  the 
only  loser." 

Florence,  who  was  more  pleased  at  what  he  heard 
than  he  would  like  to  have  acknowledged,  promised  to 
come  forth  from  his  hiding  place  and  meet  the  world 
in  a  better  spirit.  And  he  did  so  ;  being  really  drawn 
back  into  the  social  circle  by  the  attraction  of  Miss 
Weldon.  At  his  second  meeting  with  this  young  lady 
he  was  still  more  charmed  with  her  than  at  first ;  ami 
she  was  equally  well  pleased  with  him.  A  few  more 
interviews,  and  both  their  hearts  were  deeply  interested. 

Now  there  came  a  new  cause  of  disquietude  to 
Edwin ;  or,  it  might  be  said,  the  old  cause  renewed. 
The  going  out  of  his  affections  towards  Miss  Weldon 
revived  the  whole  memory  of  the  past ;  and,  for  a 


36  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

time,  he  found  it  almost  impossible  to  thrust  it  from  his 
Hud.  While  sitting  by  her  side  and  listening  to  her 
voice,  the  tones  of  Edith  would  be  in  his  ears ;  and, 
often,  when  he  looked  into  her  face,  he  would  see  only 
the  fading  countenance  of  her  who  had  passed  away. 
This  was  the  first  state,  and  it  was  exceedingly  painful 
while  it  lasted.  But}  it. gradually  changed  into  one 
more  pleasant,  yet  not  entirely  free  from  the  unwelcome 
intrusion  of  the  past. 

The  oftener  Florence  and  Miss  Weldon  met,  the 
more  strongly  were  their  hearts  drawn  toward  each 
other  ;  and,  at  length,  the  former  was  encouraged  to 
make  an  offer  of  his  hand.  In  coming  to  this 
resolution,  it  was  not  without  passing  through  a  painful 
conflict.  As  his  mind  dwelt  upon  the  subject,  there 
was  a  reproduction  of  old  states.  Most  vividly  did  he 
recall  the  time  when  he  breathed  into  the  ears  of  Edith 
vows  to  which  he  had  proved  faithless.  He  had,  it  is 
true,  returned  to  his  first  allegiance.  lie  had  laid  his 
heart  again  at  her  feet ;  but,  to  how  little  purpose  1 
While  in  this  state  of  agitation,  the  young  man 
resolved,  more  than  once,  to  abandon  his  suit  for  the 
hand  of  Miss  Weldon,  and  shrink  back  again  into  the 
seclusion  from  which  he  had  come  forth.  But,  his 
affection  for  the  lovely  girl  was  too  genuine  to  admit  of 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORY.  37 

this.  When  he  thought  of  giving  her  up,  his  mind 
was  still  more  deeply  disturbed. 

"  Oh,  that  I  could  forget !"  he  exclaimed,  while  thia 
"uggle  was  in  progress.  "  Of  what  avail  is  thia 
Darning  over  of  the  leaves  of  a  long  passed  history  ?  I 
erred — sadly  erred !  But  repentance  is  now  too  late. 
Why,  then,  should  my  whole  existence  be  cursed  for  a 
single  error  ?  -Ah,  me !  Art  thou  not  satisfied,  de- 
parted one  ?  Is  it,  indeed,  from  the  presence  of  thy 
spirit  that  I  am  troubled  ?  My  heart  sinks  at  the 
thought.  But,  no,  no !  Thou  wert  too  good  to  visit 
pain  upon  any  ;  much  less  upon  one  who,  though  false 
to  thee,  thou  didst  so  tenderly  love." 

But,  upon  this  state  there  came  a  natural  re-action. 
A  peaceful  calm  succeeded  the  storm.  Memory  de- 
posited her  records  in  the  mind's  dimly  lighted 
chambers.  To  the  present  was  restored  its  better 
influences. 

"  I  am  free  again,"  was  the  almost  audible  utterance 
f  the  young  man,  so  strong  was  his  sense  of  relief. 

An  offer  of  marriage  was  then  made  to  Miss 
Weldon.  Her  heart  trembled  with  joy  when  she 
received  it  But,  confiding  implicitly  in  her  uncie, 
who  had  been  for  the  space  of  ten  years  her  friend  and 
guardian,  she  could  not  give  an  affirmative  reply  untU 


38  HEART    HISTOBIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

his  approval  was  gained.  She,  therefore,  asked  time 
for  reflection  and  consultation  with  her  friend. 

Far  different  from  what  Florence  had  expected,  wa* 
the  reception  of  his  offer.  To  him,  Miss  Weldon 
eeemed  instantly  to  grow  cold  and  reserved.  Vividly 
was  now  recalled  his  rejection  by  Miss  Linmore,  as  well 
as  the  ground  of  her  rejection. 

"  Is  this  to  be  gone  over  again  ?"  he  sighed  to  himself, 
•when  alone  once  more.  "  Is  that  one  false  step  never 
to  be  forgotten  nor  forgiven  ?  Am  I  to  be  followed, 
through  life,  by  this  shadow  of  evil  ?" 

To  no  other  cause  than  this  could  the  mind  of 
Florence  attribute  the  apparent  change  and  hesitation 
in  Clara  Weldon. 

Immediately  on  receiving  an  offer  of  marriage,  Miss 
Weldon  returned  to  Albany.  Before  leaving,  she 
dropped  Florence  a  note,  to  the  effect,  that  he  should 
hear  from  her  in  a  few  days.  A  week  passed,  but  the 
promised  word  came  not.  It  was  now  plain  that  the 
friends  of  the  young  lady  had  been  making  inquiries 
about  him,  and  were  in  possession  of  certain  facts  in  his 
life,  which,  if  known,  would  almost  certainly  blast  his 
hopes  of  favor  in  her  eyes.  While  in  this  state  of 
uncertainty,  he  met  the  aunt  of  Edith,  and  the  way  she 
looked  at  him,  satisfied  his  mind  that  his  conjectures 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORY.  39 

were  true.    A  little  while  after  a  friend  remarked  to 
him  casually — 

"  I  saw  Colonel  Richards  in  town  to-day." 

"  Colonel  Richards !     Miss  Weldon's  uncle  I" 

**  Yes.    Have  you  seen  himj" 

"  No.    I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  an  acquaintance." 

"  Indeed  !  I  thought  you  knew  him.  I  heard  him 
mention  your  name  this  morning." 

"  My  name !" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  had  he  to  say  of  me  ?" 

"  Let  me  think.  Oh !  He  asked  me  if  I  knew 
you." 

"  Well  2" 

"  I  said  that  I  did,  of  course  ;  and  that  you  were  a 
pretty  clever  fellow ;  though  you  had  been  a  sad  boy 
in  your  time." 

The  face  of  Florence  instantly  reddened. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  Oh,  I  understand  now  1 
That  little  niece  of  his  is  one  of  your  flames.  But 
ccme !  Don't  take  it  so  to  heart.  Your  chances  ar 
one  in  ten,  I  have  no  dc  abt  By  the  way,  I  haven't 
seen  Clara  for  a  week.  What  has  become  of  her! 
Gone  back  to  Albany,  I  suppose.  I  hope  you  haven\ 
frightened  her  with  an  offer.  By  the  way,  let  me 
whUper  a  word  of  comfort  in  vour  ear.  I  heard  her 


40  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

say  that  she  didn't  believe  in  any  thing  but  first  love  ; 
and,  as  you  are  known  to  have  had  half  a  dozen 
sweethearts,  more  or  less,  and  to  have  broken  the 
hearts  of  two  or  three  young  ladies,  the  probability  is, 
Jbat  you  won't  be  able. to  add  her  to  the  number  of 
your  lady  loves." 

All  this  was  mere  jesting ;  but  the  words,  though 
uttered  in  jest,  fell  upon  the  ears  of  Edwin  Florence 
with  all  the  force  of  truth. 

"  Guilty,  on  your  own  acknowledgment,"  said  the 
friend,  seeing  the  effect  of  his  words.  "  Better  always 
to  act  fairly  in  these  matters  of  the  heart,  Florence. 
If  we  sow  the  wind,  we  will  be  pretty  sure  to  reap  the 
whirlwind.  But  come ;  let  me  take  you  down  to  the 
Tremont,  and  introduce  you  to  Colonel  Richards.  I 
know  he  will  be  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,  and 
will,  most  probably,  give  you  an  invitation  to  go  home 
with  him  and  spend  a  week.  You  can  then  make  all 
fair  with  his  pretty  niece." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  make  his  acquaintance  just  at 
this  time,"  returned  Florence ;  "  nor  do  I  suppose  he 
cares  about  making  mine,  particularly  after  the  higk 
opinion  you  gave  him^of  my  character." 

"  Nonsense,  Edwin  !  You  don't  suppose  I  said  thai 
to  him.  Can't  you  take  a  joke  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  can  take  a  joke." 


THE    BOOK    OF     MEMORY.  41 

u  Take  that  as  one,  then.  Colonel  Richards  did  ask 
for  you,  however ;  and  said  that  he  would  like  to  meet 
you.  He  was  serious.  So  come  along,  and  let  me 
introduce  you." 

"  No ;  I  would  prefer  not  meeting  with  him  at  this 
tune." 

"  You  are  a  strange  individual." 

The  young,  men  parted  ;  Florence  to  feel  more 
disquieted  than  ever.  Colonel  Richards  had  been 
inquiring  about  him,  and,  in  prosecuting  his  inquiries, 
would,  most  likely,  find  some  one  inclined  to  relate  the 
story  of  Edith  Walter.  What  was  more  natural  ? 
That  story  once  in  the  ears  of  Clara,  and  he  felt  that 
she  must  turn  from  him  with  a  feeling  of  repulsion. 

Three  or  four  days  longer  he  was  in  suspense.  He 
heard  of  Col.  Richards  from  several  quarters,  and, 
in  each  case  when  he  was  mentioned,  he  was  alluded  to 
as  making  inquiries  about  him. 

"I  hear  that  the  beautiful  Miss  Weldon  is  to  be 
married,"  was  said  to  Florence  at  a  time  wher  he  was 
almost  mad  with  the  excitement  of  suspense. 

"  Ah  !"  he  replied,  with  forced  calmness,  "  I  hope 
she  will  be  successful  in  securing  a  good  husband." 

"So  do  I ;  for  she  is  indeed  a  sweet  girl.  I  was 
more  than  half  inclined  to  fall  in  love  with  her  myself ; 


42  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

and  would  have  done  so,  if  I  had  believed  there  wan 
any  chance  for  me." 

"  Who  is  the  favored  one  ?"  asked  Florenee. 

"I  have  not  been  able  to  find  out.  She  received 
three  or  four  offers,  and  went  back  to  Albany  to 
consider  them  and  make  her  election.  This  she  has 
done,  I  hear ;  and  already,  the  happy  recipient  of  her 
favor  is  rejoicing  over  his  good  fortune.  May  they  live 
a  thousand  years  to  be  happy  with  each  other  P* 

Here  was  another  drop  of  bitterness  in  the  cup  that 
was  at  the  lips  of  Edwin  Florence.  He  went  to  his 
office  immediately,  and,  sitting  down,  wrote  thus  to 
Clara : 

"  I  do  not  wrongly  interpret,  I  presume,  a  silence 
continued  far  beyond  the  time  agreed  upon  when  we 
parted.  You  have  rejected  my  suit.  Well,  be  it  so  ;  and 
may  you  be  happy  with  him  who  has  found  favor  in  your 
eyes.  I  do  not  think  he  can  love  you  more  sincerely  than 
I  do,  or  be  more  devoted  to  your  happiness  than  I  should 
have  been.  It  would  have  relieved  the  pain  I  cannot  but 
feel,  if  you  had  deemed  my  offer  worthy  a  frank  refusal. 
But,  to  feel  that  one  I  have  so  truly  loved  does  not  think 
me  even  deserving  of  this  attention,  is  humiliating  in  the 
extreme.  But,  I  will  not  upbraid  you.  Farewell !  May 
you  be  happy." 


THE    BOOK    OF     MEMORY.  49 

Sealing  up  this  epistle,  the  young  man,  scarcely 
pausing  even  for  hurried  reflection,  threw  it  into  the 
post  office.  This  done,  he  sunk  into  a  gloomy  state  of 
mind,  in  which  mortification  and  disappointment 
struggled  alternately  for  the  predominance. 

Only  a  few  hours  elapsed  after  the  adoption  of  this 
hasty  course,  before  doubts  of  its  propriety  began  to 
steal  across  hjs  mind.  It  was  possible,  it  occurred  to 
him,  that  he  might  have  acted  too  precipitately.  There 
might  be  reasons  for  the  silence  of-  Miss  Weldon 
entirely  separate  from  those  he  had  been  too  ready  to 
assume  ;  and,  if  so,  how  strange  would  his  letter 
appear.  It  was  too  late  now  to  recall  the  act,  for 
already  the  mail  that  bore  his  letter  was  half  way  from 
New  York  to  Albany.  A  restless  night  succeeded  to 
this  day.  Early  on  the  next  morning  he  received  a 
letter.  It  was  in  these  words — 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  FLORENCE  : — I  have  been  very  ill,  and 
to-day  am  able  to  sit  up  just  long  enough  to  write  a  line 
or  two.  My  uncle  was  in  New  York  some  days  ago,  but 
did  not  meet  with  you.  Will  you  not  come  up  and 
see  me? 

"  Ever  Yours,  CLARA  WELDON." 

Florence  was  on  board  the  next  boat  that  left  New 
York  for  Albany.  The  letter  of  Clara  was,  of  course, 


44  HEART    HISTORIES   AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

written  before  the  receipt  of  his  hasty  epistle.  What 
troubled  him  now  was  the  effect  of  this  epistle  on  her 
mind.  He  had  not  only  wrongly  interpreted  her 
silence,  but  had  assumed  the  acceptance  of  another 
lover  as  confidently  as  if  he  knew  to  a  certainty  that 
such  was  the  case.  This  was  a  serious  matter,  and 
might  result  in  the  very  thing  he  had  been  so  ready  to 
assume-4— the  rejection  of  his  suit 

Arriving,  at  length,  in  Albany,  Mr.  Florence  sought 
out  the  residence  of  Miss  Weldon. 

"  Is  Colonel  Richards  at  home  ?"  he  inquired. 

On  being  answered  in  the  affirmative,  he  sent  up  his 
name  with  a  request  to  see  him.  The  colonel  made 
his  appearance  in  a  short  time.  He  was  a  tall, 
thoughtful  looking  man,  and  •bowed  with  a  dignified 
air  as  he  came  into  the  room. 

"  How  is  Miss  Weldon  ?"  asked  Florence,  with  an 
eagerness  he  could  not  restrain. 

"Not  so  well  this  morning,"  replied  the  guardian. 
"  She  had  a  bad  night" 

"  No  wonder,"  thought  the  young  man,  "  after 
receiving  that  letter." 

"  She  has  been  sleeping,  however,  since  daylight," 
added  Colonel  Richards,  and  that  is  much  in  her  favor." 

"  She  received  my  letter,  I  presume,"  said  Florence, 
in  a  hesitating  voice 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORY.  45 

"  A  letter  came  for  her  yesterday,"  was  replied ; 
u  but  as  she  was  more  indisposed  than  usual,  we  did 
not  give  it  to  her." 

".It  is  as  well,"  said  the  young  man,  experiencing  a 
sense  of  relief. 

An  hour  afterwards  he  was  permitted  to  enter  the 
chamber,  where  she  lay  supported  by  pillows.  One 
glance  at  h.er  face  dispelled  from  his  mind  ever) 
lingering  doubt.  He  had  suffered  from  imaginary 
fears,  awakened  by  the  whispers  of  a  troubled 
conscience. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN  a  few  days  Clara  was  well  enough  to  leave 
her  room,  and  was  soon  entirely  recovered  from 
her  sudden  illness.  That  little  matter  of  the  heart 
had  been  settled  within  three  minutes  of  their  meeting, 
and  they  were  now  as  happy  as  lovers  usually  are 
under  such  favorable  circumstances. 

When  Edwin  Florence  went  back  to  New  York,  ii 
was  with  a  sense  of  interior  pleasure  more  perfect  than 
he  had  experienced  for  years  ;  and  this  would  have 
remained,  could  he  have  shut  out  the  past ;  or,  so  much 
of  it  as  came  like  an  unwelcome  intruder.  But,  alas  I 
this  was  not  to  be.  Even  while  he  was  bending,  in 
spirit,  over  the  beautiful  image  of  his  last  beloved, 
there  would  come  between  his  eyes  and  that  image  a 
pale  sad  face,  in  which  reproof  was  stronger  than 
affection.  It  was  all  in  vain  that  he  sought  to  turn 
from  that  face.  For  a  time  it  would  remain  present, 
and  then  fade  slowly  away,  leaving  his  heart  oppressed. 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORY.  47 

"  Is  it  to  be  ever  thus  !"  he  would  exclaim,  in  these 
seasons  of  darkness.  "  Will  nothing  satisfy  this  accu- 
sing spirit  ?  Edith  !  Dear  Edith  !  Art  thou  not 

mong  the  blessed  ones  ?  Is  not  thy  heart  happy 
oeyond  mortal  conception  ?  Then  why  come  to  me 
thus  with  those  teaiful  eyes,  that  shadowy  face,  those 
looks  of  reproof  ?  Have  I  not  suffered  enough  for 
purification  !  ~»Ara  I  never  to  be  forgiven  ?" 

And  then,  with  an  effort,  he  would  turn  his  eyes  from 
the  page  laid  open  by  Memory,  and  seek  to  forget  what 
was  written  there.  But  it  seemed  as  if  every  thing 
conspired  to  freshen  his  remembrance  of  the  past, 
the  nearer  the  time  approached,  when  by  a  marriage 
union  with  one  truly  beloved,  he  was  to  weaken  the 
bonds  it  had  thrown  around  him.  The  marriage  of 
Miss  Linmore  took  place  a  few  weeks  after  his  engage- 
ment with  Clara,  and  as  an  intimate  friend  led  her  to 
the  altar,  he  could  not  decline  making  one  of  the 
n  imber  that  graced  the  nuptial  festivities.  In  meeting 
the  young  bride,  he  endeavored  to  push  from  his  mind 

11  thoughts  of  their  former  relations.  But  she  had 
not  done  this,  and  her  thought  determined  his.  Her 
mind  recurred  to  the  former  time,  the  moment  he  camo 
into  her  presence,  and,  of  necessity  his  went  back  also. 
They  met,  therefore,  with  a  certain  reserve,  that  was  to 


48  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

him    most    unpleasant,   particularly   as    it    stirred   a 
hundred  sleeping  memories. 

By  a  strong  effort,  Florence  was  able  to  conceal  from 
other  eyes  much  of  what  he  felt.  In  doing  this,  a 
certain  over  action  was  the  consequence  ;  and  he  was 
gayer  than  usual.  Several  times  he  endeavored  to  be 
lightly  familiar  with  the  bride ;  but,  in  every  instance 
that  he  approached  her,  he  perceived  a  kind  of 
instinctive  shrinking ;  and,  if  she  was  in  a  laughing 
mood,  when  he  drew  near  she  became  serious  and 
reserved.  All  this  was  too  plain  to  be  mistaken  ;  and 
like  the  repeated  strokes  of  a  hammer  upon  glowing 
iron,  gradually  bent  his  feelings  from  the  buoyant  form 
they  had  been  endeavoring  to  assume.  The  effect  was 
not  wholly  to  be  resisted.  .  More  than  an  hour  before 
the  happy  assemblage  broke  up,  Florence  was  not  to  be 
found  in  the  brilliantly  lighted  rooms.  Unable  longer 
to  conceal  what  he  felt,  he  had  retired. 

For  many  days  after  this,  the  young  man  felt  sober. 

"  Why  haven't  you  called  to  see  me  ?"  asked  th 
friend  who  had  married  Miss  Linmore,  a  week  or  tw 
after  the  celebration  of  the  nuptials. 

Florence  excused  himself  as  best  he  could,  and 
promised  to  call  in  a  few  days.  Two  weeks  went  by 
without  the  fulfillment  of  his  promise. 

"  No  doubt,  we  shall  see  you  next  week,"  said  the 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORY.  49 

friend,  meeting  him  one  day  about  this  time ;  "  though 
1  am  not  so  sure  we  will  receive  your  visits  then." 

"Why  not  T 

u  A  certain  young  lady  with  whom,  I  believe,  you 
have  some  acquaintance,  is  to  spend  a  short  time 
with  us." 

"  Who  ?"  asked  Florence,  quickly. 

"  A  young"  lady  from  Albany." 

"  Miss  Weldon  ?" 

"  The  same." 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  she  was  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  your  wife." 

"  She's  an  old  friend  of  mine ;  and,  in  that  sense  a 
friend  of  Kate's." 

"  Then  they  have  not  met" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  frequently.  And  are  warmly  attached. 
We  look  for  a  pleasant  visit.  But,  of  course,  we 
shall  not  expect  to  see  you.  That  is  understood." 

"  I  rather  think  you  will ;  that  is,  if  your  wife  will 
admit  me  on  friendly  terms." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?"  inquired  the  friend, 
appearing  a  little  surprised. 

"  I  thought,  on  the  night  of  your  wedding,  that  sho 
felt  my  presence  as  unwelcome  to  her." 

"  And  is  this  the  reason  why  you  have  not  called  to 
see  us" 

3 


50  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  I  fiankly  own  that  it  is!" 

u  Edwin  !  I  am  surprised  at  you.  It  is  all  a  piece  of 
imagination.  What  could  have  put  such  a  thing  into 
vour  head  ?" 

"  It  may  have  been  all  imagination.  But  I  couldn't 
help  feeling  as  I  did.  However,  you  may  expect  to  see 
me,  and  that,  too,  before  Miss  Weldon's  arrival." 

"  If  you  don't  present  yourself  before,  I  am  not  so 
sure  that  we  will  let  you  come  afterwards,"  said  the 
friend,  smiling. 

On  the  next  evening  the  young  man  called.  Mrs. 
Hartley,  the  bride  of  his  friend,  endeavored  to  forget 
the  past,  and  to  receive  him  with  all  the  external  signs 
of  forgetfulness.  But,  in  this  she  did  not  fully  succeed, 
and,  of  course,  the  visit  of  Florence  was  painfully 
embarrassing,  at  least,  to  himself.  From  that  time 
until  the  arrival  of  Miss  Weldon,  he  felt  concerned  and 
unhappy.  That  Mrs.  Hartley  would  fully  communicate 
or  covertly  hint  to  Clara  certain  events  of  his  former 
life,  he  had  too  much  reason  to  fear ;  and,  were  this 
done,  he  felt  that  all  his  fond  hopes  would  be  scattered 
to  the  winds.  In  due  time,  Miss  Weldon  arrived.  In 
meeting  her,  Florence  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of 
embarrassment,  never  before  experienced  in  her  pre- 
sence. He  understood  clearly  why  this  was  so.  At 
each  successive  visit,  his  embarrassment  increased  ;  and, 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORT.  51 

the  more  so,  from  the  fact  that  he  perceived  a  change 
in  Clara  ere  she  had  been  in  the  city  a  week.  As  to 
the  cause  of  this  change,  he  had  no  doubts.  It  was 
evident  that  Mrs.  Hartley  had  communicated  certain 
matters  touching  his  previous  history. 

Thus  it  went  on,  day  after  day,  for  two  or  three 
weeks,  by  which  time  the  lovers  met  under  the  influence 
of  a  most  chiHyig  constraint  Both  were  exceedingly 
unhappy. 

One  day,  in  calling  as  usual,  Mr.  Florence  was 
aurprised  to  learn  that  Clara  had  gone  back  to  Albany. 

"  She  said  nothing  of  this  last  night,"  remarked  the 
young  man  to  Mrs.  Hartley. 

"  Her  resolution  was  taken  after  you  went  away," 
was  replied. 

"  And  you,  no  doubt,  advised  the  step,"  said  Mr. 
Florence,  with  ill-concealed  bitterness 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?"  was  quickly  asked. 

"  How  can  I  draw  any  other  inference  ?"  said  the 
young  man,  looking  at  her  with  knit  brows. 

"  Explain  yourself,  Mr.  Florence  T 

**  Do  my  words  need  explanation  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly  !     For,  I  cannot  understand  them." 

u  There  are  events  in  my  past  life — I  will  not  say 
how  bitterly  repented — of  which  only  you  could  have 
informed  her.*" 


f>2  HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  What  events  ?"  calmly  asked  the  lady. 

"  Why  lacerate  my  feelings  by  such  a  question  ?" 
said  Florence,  while  a  shadow  of  pain  flitted  over  his 
face,  as  Memory  presented  a  record  of  the  past. 

"  I  ask  it  with  no  such  intention.  I  only  wish  to 
understand  you,"  replied  Mrs.  Hartley.  "  You  have 
brought  against  me  a  vague  accusation.  I  wish  it 
distinct,  that  I  may  affirm  or  deny  it" 

"Edith  Walter,"  said  Edwin  Florence,  in  a  low, 
unsteady  voice,  after  he  had  been  silent  for  nearly  a 
minute. 

Mre.  Hartley  looked  earnestly  into  his  face.  Every 
muscle  was  quivering. 

"  What  of  her  ?"  she  inquired,  in  tones  quite  as  low 
as  those  in  which  the  young  man  had  spoken. 

"  You  know  the  history." 

"  vVell  ?" 

"And,  regardless  of  my  suffering  and  repentance, 
made  known  to  Clara  the  blasting  secret." 

"  No  !  By  my  hopes  of  heaven,  no  !"  quickly 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Hartley. 

"No?"  A  quiver  ran  through  the  young  man's 
frame. 

"  No,  Mr.  Florence  !  That  rested  as  silently  in  my 
own  bosom  as  in  yours."  , 

"  Who,  then,  informed  her  ?" 


THE    BOOK     OF    MEMORY.  53 

«  No  one." 

u  Has  she  not  heard  of  it  ?" 

"No." 

"  Why,  then,  did  she  change  towards  me  ?" 

"  You  changed,  first,  towards  her." 

"Me!" 

u  Yes.  From  the  day  of  her  arrival  in  New  York, 
she  perceived  i«_you  a  certain  coldness  and  reserve,  that 
increased  with  each  repeated  interview." 

"  Oh,  no !" 

"  It  is  true.     I  saw  it  myself." 

Florence  clasped  his  hands  together,  and  bent  hia 
eyes  in  doubt  and  wonder  upon  the  floor. 

"  Did  she  complain  of  coldness  and  change  in  me  ?" 
he  inquired. 

"  Yes,  often.  And  returned,"  last  night,  to  leave  you 
free,  doubting  not  that  you  had  ceased  to  love  her." 

"  Ceased  to  love  her !  While  this  sad  work  has 
been  going  on,  I  have  loved  her  with  the  agony  of  one 
who  is  about  losing  earth's  most  precious  thing.  Oh  I 
vn-ite  to  her  for  me,  and  explain  all.  How  strange  has 
been  my  infatuation.  Will  you  write  for  me  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Say  that  my  heart  has  not  turned  from  her  ac 
instant.  That  her  imagined  coldness  has  made  me  of 
all  men  most  wretched." 


54  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  I  will  do  so.    But  why  not  write  yourself  ?" 

"  It  will  be  better  to  come  from  you.  Ask  her  to 
return.  I  would  rather  meet  her  here  than  in  her 
uncle's  house.  Urge  her  to  come  back." 

Mrs.  Hartley  promised  to  do  so,  according  to  th 
wish  of  Mr.  Florence.  Two  days  passed,  and  there 
was  no  answer.  On  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  the 
young  man,  in  a  state  of  agitation  from  suspense 
called  at  the  house  of  his  friend.  After  sending  up  his 
name,  he  sat  anxiously  awaiting  the  appearance  of  Mrs. 
Hartley.  The  door  at  length  opened,  and,  to  his 
surprise  and  joy,  Clara  entered.  She  came  forward 
with  a  smile  upon  her  face,  extending  her  hand  as  she 
did  so.  Edwin  sprang  to  meet  her,  and  catching  her 
hand,  pressed  it  eagerly  to  his  lips 

"  Strange  that  we  should  have  so  erred  in  regard  to 
each  other,"  said  Clara,  as  they  sat  communing  tenderly. 
"  I  trust  no  such  error  will  come  in  the  future  to  which 
I  look  forward  with  so  many  pleasing  hopes." 

"  Heaven  forbid  !"  replied  the  young  man,  seriously 
"  But  we  are  in  a  world  of  error.  Ah !  if  we  coulc 
only  pass  through  life  without  a  mistake.  If  the 
heavy  weight  of  repentance  did  not  lie  so  often  and  so 
long  upon  our  hearts — this  would  be  a  far  pleasanter 
world  than  it  is." 

"  Do  not  look  so  serious,"  remarked  Clara,  as  shf 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORY.  55 

bent  forward  and  gazed  affectionately  into  the  young 
man's  face.  "  To  err  is  human.  No  one  here  is 
perfect.  How  often,  for  hours,  have  I  mourned  over 
errors ;  yet  grief  was  of  no  avail,  except  to  make  my 
future  more  guarded." 

tt  And  thaj;  was  much  gained,"  said  Florence, 
breathing  deeply  with  a  sense  of  relief.  "  If  we  cannot 
recall  and  correct  the  past,  we  can  at  least  be  more 
guarded  in  the  future.  This  is  the  effect  of  my  own 
experience.  Ah  !  if  we  properly  considered  the  action 
of  our  present  upon  the  future,  how  guarded  would  we 
be.  All  actions  are  in  the  present,  and  the  moment 
they  are  done  the  present  becomes  the  past,  over  which 
Memory  presides.  What  is  past  is  fixed.  Nothing  can 
change  it  The  record  is  in  marble,  to  be  seen  in  afl 
future  time." 

The  serious  character  of  the  interview  soon  changed, 
and  the  young  lovers  forgot  every  thing  in  the  joy  of 
their  reconciliation.  Nothing  arose  to  mar  their  inter- 
course until  the  appointed  time  for  the  nuptial  ceremo- 
nies arrived,  when  they  were  united  in  holy  wedlock. 
But,  Edwin  Florence  did  not  pass  on  to  this  time 
without  another  visit  from  the  rebuking  Angel  of  the 
Past.  He  was  not  permitted  to  take  the  hand  of 
Clara  in  his,  and  utter«4he  words  that  bound  him  to 
her  forever,  without  a  visit  'from  the  one  whose  heart 


56  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

he  had  broken  years  before.  She  came  to  him  in  the 
dark  and  silent  midnight,  as  he  tossed  sleeplessly  upon 
his  bed,  and  stood  and  looked  at  him  with  her  pale  face 
and  despairing  eyes,  until  he  was  driven  almost  to 
madness.  She  was  with  him  when  the  light  of 
morning  dawned  ;  she  moved  by  his  side  as  he  went 
forth  to  meet  and  claim  his  betrothed  ;  and  was  near 
him,  invisible  to  all  eyes  but  his  own,  when  he  stood  at 
the  altar  ready  to  give  utterance  to  the  solemn  words 
that  bound  him  to  his  bride.  And  not  until  these 
words  were  said,  did  the  vision  fade  away. 

No  wonder  the  face'  of  the  bridegroom  wore  a 
solemn  aspect  as  he  presented  himself  to  the  minister, 
and  breathed  the  vows  of  eternal  fidelity  to  the  living, 
while  before  him,  as  distinct  as  if  in  bodily  form,  was 
the  presence  of  one  long  since  sleeping  in  her  grave, 
who  had  gone  down  to  her  shadowy  resting  place 
through  his  infidelity. 

From  this  time  there  was  a  thicker  veil  drawn  over 
the  past.  The  memory  of  that  one  event  grew  less 
and  less  distinct ;  though  it  was  not  obliterated,  for 
nothing  that  is  written  in  the  Book  of  Life  is  ever 
blotted  out.  There  were  reasons,  even  in  long  years 
after  his  marriage,  when  the  record  stood  suddenly 
before  him,  as  if  written  in  >ords  of  light ;  and  he 
would  turn  from  it  with  a  feeling  of  pain. 


THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORY.  51 

Thus  it  is  that  our  present  blesses  or  curses  our 
future.  Every  act  of  our  lives  affects  the  coming  time 
for  good  or  evil.  We  make  our  own  destiny,  and 
make  it  always  in  the  present  The  past  is  gone,  th*» 
future  is  yet  to  come.  The  present  only  is  ours,  and, 
according  to  what  we  do  in  the  present,  will  be  the 
records  of  the  past  and  its  influence  on  the  future. 
They  are  only  wise  who  wisely  regard  their  actions  in 
the  present 


THE  BRILLIANT  AND  THE  COMMONPLACE 


DAY  after  day  I  worked  at  my  life-task,  and  worked 
in  an  earnest  spirit.  Not  much  did  I  seem  tc 
accomplish  ;  yet  the  little  that  was  done  had  on  it  the 
impress  of  good.  Still,  I  was  dissatisfied,  because  my 
gifts  were  less  dazzling  than  those  of  which  many 
around  me  could  boast.  When  I  thought  of  the 
brilliant  ones  sparkling  in  the  firmament  of  literature, 
and  filling  the  eyes  of  admiring  thousands,  something 
like  the  evil  spirit  of  envy  came  into  my  heart  and 
threw  a  shadow  upon  my  feelings.  I  was  troubled 
because  I  had  not  their  gifts.  I  wished  to  shine  with  a 
stronger  light.  To  dazzle,  as  well  as  to  warm  and 
vivify. 

Not  long  ago,  there  came  among  us  one  whom 
nature  had  richly  endowed.  His  mind  possessed 
exceeding  brilliancy.  Flashes  of  thought,  like  light- 
ning from  a  summer  cloud,  were  ever  filling  the  air 


THE    BRILLIANT    AND    THE    COMMONPLACE.          59 

around  him.  There  was  a  stateliness  in  the  movement 
of  his  intellect, .  and  an  evidence  of  power,  that 
oppressed  you  at  times  with  wonder. 

Around  him  gathered  the  lesser  lights  in  thf 
hemisphere  of  thought,  and  veiled  their  feeble  rayt 
beneath  his  excessive  brightness.  He  seemed  conscious 
of  his  superior  gifts,  and  displayed  them  more  like  a 
giant  beating  the  air  to  excite  wonder,  than  putting 
forth  his  strength  to  accomplish  a  good  and  noble 
work.  Still,  I  was  oppressed  and  paralyzed  by  the 
sphere  of  his  presence.  I  felt  puny  and  weak  beside 
him,  and  unhappy  because  I  was  not  gifted  with  equal 
power. 

It  so  happened  that  a  work  of  mine,  upon  which  the 
maker's  name  was  not  stamped — work  done  with  a 
purpose  of  good — was  spoken  of  and  praised  by  one 
who  did  not  know  me  as  the  handicraftsman. 

"  It  is  tame,  dull,  and  commonplace,"  said  the 
brilliant  one,  in  a  tone  of  contempt ;  and  there  were 
many  present  to  agree  with  him. 

Like  the  strokes  of  a  hammer  upon  my  heart,  came 
these  words  of  condemnation.  "  Tame,  dull,  and 
commonplace  !"  And  was  it,  indeed,  so  ?  Yes  ;  I  felt 
that  what  he  uttered  was  true.  That  my  powers  were 
feceedingly  limited,  and  my  gifts  few.  Oh,  what 
I  not  have  then  given  for  brilliant  endowments 


60  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    IICTURE8. 

like  those  possessed  by  him  from  whom  had  fallen  the 
words  of  condemnation  ? 

"  You  will  admit,"  said  one — I  thought  it  strange  at 
the  time  that  there  should  be  even  one  to  speak  a  word 
In  favor  of  my  poor  performance — "  that  it  will  do 
good  «" 

"  Good  !"  was  answered,  in  a  tone  slightly  touched 
by  contempt.  "  £>h,  yes  ;  it  will  do  good  !"  and  the 
brilliant  one  tossed  his  head.  "  Anybody  can  do 
good  !" 

I  went  home  with  a  perturbed  spirit.  I  had  work 
to  do  ;  but  I  could  not  do  it.  I  sat  down  and  tried  to 
forget  what  I  had  heard.  I  tried  to  think  about  the 
tasks  that  were  before  me.  "  Tame,  dull,  and  common- 
place !'•'  Into  no  other  form  would  my  thoughts  come. 

Exhausted,  at  last,  by  this  inward  struggle,  I  threw 
myself  upon  my  bed,  and  soon  passed  into  the  land  of 
dreams. 

Dream-land  !  Thou  art  thought  by  many  to  be 
only  a  land  of  fantasy  and  of  shadows.  But  it  is  not 
so.  Dreams,  for  the  most  part,  are  fantastic ;  but  all 
are  not  so.  Nearer  are  we  to  the  world  of  spirits,  in 
sleep ;  and,  at  times,  angels  come  to  us  with  lessons  of 
wisdom,  darkly  veiled  under  similitude,  or  written  in 
characters  of  light. 

I  passed  into  dream-land  ;  but  my  thoughts  went  ou 


THE    BRILLIANT    AND    THE    COMMONPLACE.          61 

in  the  same  current.     "  Tame,  dull,  and  commonplace  I* 
I  felt  the  condemnation  more  strongly  than  before. 

I  was  out  in  the  open  air,  and  around  me  wert 
mountains,  trees,  green  fields,  and  running  waters  ;  and 
above  all  bent  the  sky  in^  its  azure  beauty.  The  sun 
was  just  unveiling  his  face  in  the  east,  and  his  rays 
were  lighting  up  the  dew-gems  on  a  thousand  blades 
of  grass,  and  making  the  leaves  glitter  as  if  studded 
with  diamonds. 

"  How  calm  and  beautiful !"  said  a  voice  near  me. 
I  turned,  and  one  wliose  days  were  in  the  "  sear  and 
yellow  leaf,"  stood  by  my  side, 

"But  all  is  tame  and  commonplace,"  I  answered. 
"  We  have  this  over  and  over  again,  day  after  day, 
month  after  month,  and  jear  after  year.  Give  me 
something  brilliant  and  startling,  if  it  be  in  the  fiery 
comet  or  the  rushing  storm.  I  am  sick  of  the 
commonplace !"  . 

"  And  yet  to  the  commonplace  the  world  is  indebted 
for  every  great  work  and  great  blessing.  For  every 
thing  good,  and  true,  and  beautiful !" 

I  looked  earnestly  into  the  face  of  the  old  .man.  He 
went  on. 

"  The  truly  good  and  great  is  the  useful ;  for  in  that 
is  the  Divine  image.  Softly  and  unobtrusively  has  the 
dew  fallen,  as  it  falls  night  after  right.  Silently  it 


62  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

distilled,  while  the  vagrant  meteors  threw  their  lines  of 
dazzling  light  across  the  sky,  and  men  looked  up  at 
them  in  wonder  and  .admiration.  And  now  the  soft 
rass,  the  green  leaves,  and  the  sweet  flowers,  that 
.rooped  beneath  the  fervent  heat  of  yesterday,  are  fresh 
again  and  full  of  beauty,  ready  to  receive  the  light  and 
warmth  of  the  risen  sun,  and  expand  with  a  new  vigor. 
All  this  may  be  tame  and  commonplace ;  but  is  it  not 
a  great  and  a  good  work  that  has  been  going  on  ? 

"  The  tiller  of  the  soil  is  going  forth  again  to  his 
work.  Do  not  turn  your  eyes  from  him,  and  let  a 
feeling  of  impatience  stir  in  your  heart  because  he  is 
not  a  soldier  rushing  to  battle,  or  a  brilliant  orator 
holding  thousands  enchained  by  the  power  of  a  fervid 
eloquence  that  is  born  not  so  much  of  good  desires  for 
his  fellow-men  as  from  the  heat  of  his  own  self-love. 
Day  after  day,  as  now,  patient  and  hopeful,  the 
husbandman  enters  upon  the  work  that  lies  before  him, 
and,  hand  in  hand  with  God's  blessed  sunshine,  dews, 
and  rain,  a  loving  and  earnest  co-laborer,  brings  forth 
from  earth's  treasure-house  of  blessings  good  gifts  for 
his  fellow- men.  Is  all  this  commonplace  ?  How  great 
and  good  is  the  commonplace  !" 

I  turned  to  answer  the  old  man,  but  he  was  gone.  I 
was  standing  on  a  high  mountain,  and  beneath  me,  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  were  stretched  broad  and 


THE    BRILLIANT    AND    THE    COMMONPLACE.  68 

richly  cultivated  fields;  and  from  a  hundred  farm- 
houses went  up  the  curling  smoke  from  the  fires  ot 
industry.  Fields  were  waving  with  golden  grain,  and 
trees  bending  with  their  treasures  of  fruit.  Suddenly, 
the  bright  sun  was  veiled  in  clouds,  that  came  whirling 
up  from  the  horizon  in  dark  and  broken  masses,  and 
throwing  a  deep  shadow  over  the  landscape  just  before 
bathed  in  light  "•Calmly  had  I  surveyed  the  peaceful 
scene  spread  out  before  me.  I  was  charmed  with  its 
quiet  beauty.  But  now,  stronger  emotions  stirred 
within  me. 

"  Oh,  this  is  sublime  !"  I  murmured,  as  I  gazed  upon 
the  cloudy  hosts  moving  across  the  heavens  in  battle 
array. 

A  gleam  of  lightning  sprang  forth  fro?n  a  dark 
cavern  in  the  sky,  and  then,  far  off,  rattled  and  jarred 
the  echoing  thunder.  Next  came  the  rushing  and 
roaring  wind,  bending  the  giant-limbed  oaks  as  if  they 
were  but  wands  of  willow,  and  tearing  up  lesser  trees 
as  a  child  tears  up  from  its  roots  a  weed  or  flower. 

In  this  war  of  elements  I  stood,  with  my  head 
oared,  and  clinging  to  a  rock,  mad  with  a  strange  and 
wild  delight 

"  Brilliant !  Sublime  !  Grand  beyond  the  power  of 
description  !"  I  said,  as  the  storm  deepened  in  intensity. 


04  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  An  hour  like  this  is  Worth  all  the  commonplace,  dull 
events  of  a  lifetime  !" 

There  came  a  stunning  crash  in  the  midst  of  c 
dazzling  glare.  For  some  moments  I  was  blinded. 
When  sight  was  restored,  I  sawj  below  me,  the  flames 
curling  upward  from  a  dwelling  upon  which  the  fierce 
lightning  had  fallen. 

"  What  majesty !  what  awful  sublimity  !"  said  I, 
aloud.  I  thought  not  of  the  pain,  and  terror,  and 
death  that  reigned  in  the  human  habitation  upon 
which  the  bolt  of  destruction  had  fallen,  but  of  the 
sublime  power  displayed  in  the  strife  of  the  elements. 

There  was  another  change.  I  no  longer  stood  on 
the  mountain,  with  the  lightning  and  tempest  around 
me;  but  was  in  the  valley  below,  down  upon  which 
the  storm  had  swept  with  devastating  fury.  Fields  of 
grain  were  level  with  the  earth  ;  houses  destroyed ;  and 
the  trophies  of  industry  marred  in  a  hundred  ways. 

"  How  sublime  are  the  works  of  the  tempest !"  said 
a  voice  near  me.  I  turned,  and  the  old  man  was 
again  at  my  side. 

But  I  did  not  respond  to  his  words. 

"  What  majesty  !  What  awful  sublimity  and 
power  !"  continued  the  old  man.  "  But,"  he  added,  in 
a  changed  voice,  "  there  is  a  higher  power  in  the  gentle 
rain  than  lies  in  the  rushing  tempest.  The  power  to 


THE    BRILLIANT    AND    THE    COMMONPLACE.          65 

destroy  is  an  evil  power,  and  has  bounds  beyond 
which'  it  cannot  go.  But  the  gentle  rain  that  falla 
noiselessly  to  the  earth,  is  the  power  of  restoration  and 
recreation.  See !" 

I  looked,  and  a  man  lay  upon  the  ground  apparently 
lifeless.  He  had  been  struck  down  by  the  lighting. 
His  pale  face  was  upturned  to  the  sky,  and  the  rain 
shaken  free  frofo.  the  cloudy  skirts  of  the  retiring 
storm,  was  falling  upon  it  I  continued  to  gaze  upon 
the  face  of  the  prostrate  man,  until  there  came  into  it  a 
flush  of  life.  Then  his  limbs  quivered ;  he  threw  his 
arms  about.  A  groan  issued  from  his  constricted  chest. 
In  a  little  while,  he  arose. 

"  Which  is  best  ?  Which  is  most  to  be  loved  and 
admired  ?"  said  the  old  man.  "  The  wild,  fierce, 
brilliant  tempest,  or  the  quiet  rain  that  restores  the 
image  of  life  and  beauty  which  the  tempest  has 
destroyed  ?  See  !  The  gentle  breezes  are  beginning 
to  move  over  the  fields,  and,  hand  in  hand  with  the 
uplifting  sunlight,  to  raise  the  grain  that  has  beeu 
trodden  beneath  the  crushing  heel  of  the  tempest, 
whose  false  sublimity  you  so  much  admired.  There  is 
nothing  startling  and  brilliant  in  this  work  ;  but  it  is  a 
good  and  a  great  work,  and  it  will  go  on  silently  and 
efficiently  until  not  a  trace  of  the  desolating  storm  can 
oe  found.  In  the  still  atmosphere,  unseen,  but  all- 


66  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

potent,  lies  a  power  ever  busy  in  the  work  of  creating 
and  restoring ;  or,  in  other  words,  in  the  commonplace 
wark  of  doing  good.  Which  office  would  you  like  best 
o  assume — which  is  the  most  noble — the  office  of  the 
destroyer  or  the  restorer  J" 

I  mted  my  eyes  again,  and  saw  men  busily  engaged 
in  blotting  out  the  traces  of  the  storm,  and  in  restoring 
all  to  its  former  use  and  beauty. 

Builders  were  at  work  upon  the  house  which  had 
been  struck  by  lightning,  and  men  engaged  in  repairing 
fences,  barns,  and  other  objects  upon  which  had  been 
spent  the  fury  of  the  excited  elements.  Soon  every 
vestige  of  the  destroyer  was  gone. 

"Commonplace  work,  that  of  nailing  on  boards  and 
shiugles,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "  of  repairing  broken 
fences ;  of  filling  up  the  deep  foot-prints  of  the  passing 
storm  ;  but  is  it  not  a  noble  work  ?  Yes ;  for  it  is 
ennobled  by  its  end.  Far  nobler  than  the  work  of  the 
brilliant  tempest,  which  moved  but  to  destroy." 

The  scene  changed  once  more.  I  was  back  again 
from  the  land  of  dream3,  and  similitudes.  It  was 
midnight,  and  the  moon  was  shining  in  a  cloudless  sky. 
T  arose,  and  going  to  the  window,  sat  and  looked  forth, 
musing  "upon  my  dream.  All  was  hushed  as  if  I  were 
out  in  the  fields,  instead  of  in  the  heart  of  a  populous 
city.  Soon  came  the  sound  of  footsteps,  heavy  and 


THE    BRILLIANT    AND    THE    COMMONPLACE.          <J1 

measured,  and  the  watchman  passed  on  his  round  of 
duty.  An  humble  man  was  he,  forced  by  necessity 
into  liis  position,  and  rarely  thought  of  and  little 
regarded  by  the  many.  There  was  nothing  brilliant 
about  him  to  attract  the  eye  and  extort  admiration. 
The  man  and  his  calling  were  commonplace.  He 
passed  on  ;  and,  as  his  form  left  my  eye,  the  thought 
of  him  passed"  Jfrom  my  mind.  Not  long  after, 
unheralded  by  the  sound  of  footsteps,  came  one  with  a 
stealthy,  crouching  air;  pausing  now,  and  listening: 
and  now  looking  warily  from  side  to  side.  It  was 
plain  that  he  was  on  no  errand  of  good  to  his  fellow- 
men,  lie,  too,  passed  on,  and  was  lost  to  my  vision. 

Many  minutes  went  by,  and  I  still  remained  at  the 
window,  musing  upon  the  subject  of  my  dream,  when 
I  was  startled  by  a  cry  of  terror  issuing  from  a  house 
not  far  away.  It  was  the  cry  of  a  woman.  Obeying 
the  instinct  of  my  feelings,  I  ran  into  the  street  an-1 
made  my  way  hurriedly  towards  the  spot  from  which 
the  cry  came. 

"  Help  !  help  !  murder  !"  shrieked  a  woman  from 
the  open  window. 

I  tried  the  street  door  of  the  house,  but  it  was 
fastened.  I  threw  myself  against  it  with  all  my 
strength,  and  it  yielded  to  the  concussion.  As  1 
entered  the  dark  passage,  I  found  myself  suddenly 


68  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

grappled  by  a  strong  man,  who  threw  me  down  and 
held  me  by  the  throat.  I  struggled  to  free  myself,  but 
in  vain.  His  grip  tightened.  In  a  few  moments  I 
would  have  been  lifeless.  But,  just  at  the  instant 
when  consciousness  was  about  leaving  me,  the  guardian 
of  the  night  appeared.  With  a  single  stroke  of  his 
heavy  mace,  he  laid  the  midnight  robber  and  assassin 
senseless  upon  the  floor. 

How  instantly  was  that  humble  watchman  ennobled 
in  my  eyes  !  How  high  and  important  was  his  use  in 
society !  I  looked  at  him  from  a  new  standpoint,  and 
saw  him  in  a  new  relation. 

u  Commonplace  !"  said  I,  on  regaining  my  own 
room  in  my  own  house,  panting  from  the  excitement 
and  danger  to  which  I  had  been  subjected.  "  Common- 
place !  Thank  God  for  the  commonplace  and  the 
useful  1" 

Again  I  passed  into  the  land  of  dreams,  where  I 
found  myself  walking  in  a  pleasant  way,  pondering  the 
theme  which  had  taken  such  entire  possession  of  my 
thoughts.  As  I  moved  along,  I  met  the  gifted  one 
who  had  called  my  work  dull  and  commonplace ;  that 
work  was  a  simple  picture  of  human  life,  drawn  for  the 
purpose  of  inspiring  the  reader  with  trust  in  God  and 
love  towards  his  fellow-man.  He  addressed  me  with 
the  air  of  one  who  felt  that  he  was  superior,  and  led 


THE    BRILLIANT    AND    THE    COMMONPLACE.          69 

off  the  conversation  by  a  brilliant  display  of  words  that 
half  concealed,  instead  of  making  clear,  his  ideas. 
Though  I  perceived  this,  I  was  yet  affected  with 
admiration.  My  eyes  were  dazzled  as  by  a  glare  of 
light' 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  sighed  to  myself ;  "  I  am  dull,  tame, 
and  commonplace  beside  these  children  of  genius. 
How  poor  and  mean  is  the  work  that  comes  from  my 
hands  !" 

"  Not  so  !"  said  my  companion.  I  turned  to  look  at 
him  ;  but  the  gifted  being  stood  not  by  my  side.  In 
his  place  was  the  ancient  one  who  had  before  spoken  to 
me  in  the  voice  of  wisdom. 

"  Not  so  !"  he  continued.  "  Nothing  that  is  useful 
is  poor  and  mean.  Look  up !  In  the  fruit  of  our 
labor  is  the  proof  of  its  quality." 

I  was  in  the  midst  of  a  small  company,  and  the 
gifted  being  whose  powers  I  had  envied  was  there,  the 
centre  of  attraction  and  the  observed  of  all  observers. 
He  read  to  those  assembled  from  a  book  ;  and  what  he 
read  flashed  with  a  brightness  that  was  dazzling.  All 
listened  in  the  most  rapt  attention,  and,  by  the  power 
of  what  the  gifted  one  read,  soared  now,  in  thought, 
among  the  stars,  spread  their  wings  among  the  swift- 
moving  tempest,  or  descended  into  the  unknown  depths 
of  the  earth.  As  for  myself,  my  miud  seemed  endowed 


70  HE.\RT    HISTORIKS    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

with  new  faculties,  and  to  rise  almost  into  the  power  of 
the  infinite. 

"  Glorious  !  Divine  !  Godlike  !"  Such  were  the 
admiring  words  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  all. 

And  then  the  company  dispersed.  As  we  went  forth 
from  the  room  in  which  we  had  assembled,  we  met 
numbers  who  were  needy,  and  sick,  and  suffering  ; 
mourners,  who  sighed  for  kind  words  from  the  com- 
forter :  little  children,  who  had  none  to  love  and  care 
for  them  ;  the  faint  and  weary,  who  needed  kind  hands 
to  help  them  on  their  toilsome  journey.  But  no 
human  sympathies  were  stirring  in  our  hearts.  We 
had  been  raised,  by  the  power  of  the  genius  we  so 
much  admired,  far  above  the  world  and  its  common- 
place sympathies.  The  wings  of  our  spirits  were  still 
beating  the  air,  far  away  in  the  upper  regions  of 
transcendant  thought 

Another  change  came.  I  saw  a  woman  reading 
from  the  same  book  from  which  the  gifted  one  had 
read.  Ever  and  anon  she  paused,  and  gave  utterance 
to  words  of  admiration. 

"  Beautiful !  beautiful !"  fell,  ever  and  anon,  from  her 
lips  ;  and  she  would  lift  her  eyes,  and  muse  upon  what 
she  was  reading.  As  she  sat  thus,  a  little  child  entered 
the  room.  He  was  crying. 

M  Mother  !  mother  !"  said  the  child,  "  I  want—" 


THE    BRILLIANT    AND    THE    COMMONPLACE.         71 

But  the  mother's  thoughts  were  far  above  the 
legions  of  the  commonplace.  Her  mind  was  in  a 
world  of  ideal  beauty.  Disturbed  by  the  interruption, 
a  slight  frown  contracted  on  her  beautiful  brows  as  sh4 

O 

arose  and  took  her  child  by  the  arm  to  thrust  it  from 
the  room. 

A  slight  shudder  wenl  through  my  frame  as  I 
marked  the  totalling  distress  that  overspread  the 
countenance  of  the  child  as  it  looked  up  into  its 
mother's  face  and  saw  nothing  there  but  an  angry 
frown. 

"  Every  thought  is  born  of  affection,"  said  the  old 
man,  as  this  scene  faded  away,  "  and  has  in  it  the 
quality  of  the  life  that  gave  it  birth  ;  and  when  that 
thought  is  reproduced  in  the  mind  of  another,  it 
awakens  its  appropriate  affection.  If  there  had  been  a 
true  love  of  his  neighbor  in  the  mind  of  the  gifted  one 
when  he  wrote  the  book  from  which  the  mother  read, 
and  if  his  purpose  had  been  to  inspire  with  human 
emotions — and  none  but  these  are  God-like — the  souls 
of  men,  his  work  would  have  filled  the  heart  of  tha 
mother  with  a  deeper  lore  of  her  child,  instead  of 
freezing  in  her  bosom  the  surface  of  love's  celestial 
fountain.  To  have  hearkened  to  the  grief  of  that  dear 
child,  and  to  have  ministered  to  its  comfort,  would  have 
been  a  commonplace  act,  but,  how  truly  noble  and 


72  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

divine!     And  now,  look   again,  and  let  what  passe* 
before  you  give  strength  to  your  wavering  spirits." 

I  lifted  my  eyes,  and  saw  a  man  reading,  and  I  knew 
that  he  read  that  work  of  mine  which  the  gifted  one 
nad  condemned  as  dull,  and  tame,  and  commonplace. 
And,  moreover,  I  knew  that  he  was  in  trouble  so  deep 
as  to  be  almost  hopeless  of  the  future,  and  just  ready 
to  give  up  his  life-struggle,  and  let  his  hands  fall  listless 
and  despairing  by  his  side.  Around  him  were 
gathered  his  wife  and  his  little  ones,  and  they  were 
looking  to  him,  but  in  vain,  for  the  help  they  needed. 

As  the  man  read,  I  saw  a  light  come  suddenly  into 
his  face.     He  paused,  and  seemed  musing  for  a  time  ; 
and  his  eyes  gleamed  quickly  upwards,  and  as  his  lips 
parted,  these  words  came  forth  :  "  Yes,  yes ;  it  must  be 
BO.     God  is  merciful  as  he  is  wise,  and  will  not  forsake 
his  creatures.     He  tries  us  in  the  fires  of  adversity  but 
to  consume  the  evil  of  our  hearts.     I  will  trust  him, 
and  again  go  forth,  with  my  eyes  turned  confidingly 
upwards."     And  the  man  went  forth  in  the  spirit  of 
confidence  in  Heaven,  inspired  by  what  I  had  written. 
"  Look  again,"  said  the  one  by  my  side. 
I  looked,  and  saw*  the  same  man  in  the  midst  of  a 
smiling  family.     His  countenance  was  full  of  life  and 
happiness,  for  his  trust  had  not  been  in  vain.     As  I  had 
written,  so  he  had  found  it     God  is  good,  and  lets  no 


THE    BRILLIANT    AND    THE    COMMONPLACE.          73 

one  feel  the  fires  of  adversity  longer  than  is  necessary 
for  his  purification  from  evil 

"  Look  again  !"  came  like  tones  of  music  to  my  ear. 

I  looked,  and  saw  one  lying  upon  a  bed.  By  the 
Gnes  upon  his  brow,  and  the  compression  of  his  lips,  it 
was  evident  that  he  was  in  bodily  suffering.  A  book 
lay  near  him  ;  it  was  written  by  the  gifted  one,  and  was 
full  of  bright  thoughts  and  beautiful  images.  He  took 
it,  and  tried  to  forget  his  pain  in  these  thoughts  and 
images.  But  in  this  he  did  not  succeed,  and  soon  laid 
it  aside  with  a  groan  of  anguish.  Then  there  was 
handed  to  him  my  poor  and  commonplace  work  ;  and 
he  opened  the  pages  and  began  to  read.  I  soon 
perceived  that  an  interest  was  awakened  in  his  mind. 
Gradually  the  contraction  of  his  brow  grew  less  severe, 
and,  in  a  little  while,  he  had  forgotten  his  pain. 

"  I  will  be  more  patient,"  said  he,  in  a  calm  voice, 
after  he  had  read  for  a  long  time  with  a  deep  interest 
"  There  are  many  with  pain  worse  than  mine  to  bear, 
who  have  none  of  the  comforts  and  blessings  so  freely 
scattered  along  my  way  through  life." 

And  then  he  gave  directions  to  have  relief  sent  to 
one  and  another  whom  he  now  remembered  to  be  in 
need. 

u  It  is  a  good  work  that  prompts  to  good  in  others," 

*«id  the  old  man.    "  What  if  it  be  dull  and  tame- 
4 


74  HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

commonplace  to  the  few— it  is  a  good  gift  to  the  world, 
and  thousands  will  bless  the  giver.  Look  again  !" 

An  angry  mother,  impatient  and  fretted  by  the 
conduct  of  a  froward  child,  had  driven  her  boy  from 
her  presence,  when,  if  she  had  controlled  her  own 
feelings,  she  might  have  drawn  him  to  her  side  and 
subdued  him  by  the  power  of  affection.  She  waa 
unhappy,  and  her  boy  had  received  an  injury. 

The  mother  was  alone.  Before  her  was  a  table 
covered  with  books,  and  she  took  up  one  to  read.  I 
knew  the  volume  ;  it  was  written  by  one  whose  genius 
had  a  deep  power  of  fascination.  Soon  the  mother 
became  lost  in  its  exciting  pages,  and  remained  buried 
in  them  for  hours.  At  length,  after  turning  the  last 
page,  she  closed  the  book ;  and  then  came  the  thought 
of  her  wayward  boy.  But,  her  feelings  toward  him 
had  undergone  no  change  ;  she  was  still  angry,  because 
of  his  disobedience. 

Another  book  lay  upon  the  table ;  a  book  of  no 
pretensions,  and  written  with  the  simple  purpose  of 
doing  good.  It  was  commonplace,  because  it  dealt 
with  things  in.  the  common  life  around  us.  The 
mother  took  this  up,  opened  to  the  title-page,  turned  a 
few  leaves,  and  then  laid  it  down  again  ;  sat  thoughtful 
for  some  moments,  and  then  sighed.  Again  she  lifted 
the  book,  opened  it,  and  commenced  reading.  In  a 


THE    BRILLIANT    AND    THE    COMMONPLACE.          75 

little  while  she  was  all  attention,  and  ere  long  I  saw 
a  tear  stealing  forth  upon  her  cheeks.  Suddenly  she 
closed  the  book,  evincing  strong  emotion  as  she  did  so, 
and,  rising  up,  went  from  the  room.  Ascending  to  a 
chamber  above,  she  entered,  and  there  found  the  boy 
at  play.  He  looked  towards  her,  and,  remembering 
her  anger,  a  shadow  flitted  across  his  face.  But  his 
mother  smiled- _  and  looked  kindly  towards  him. 
Instantly  the  boy  dropped  his  playthings,  and  sprung 
to  her  side.  She  stooped  and  kissed  him. 

"  Oh,  mother  !  I  do  love  you,  and  I  will  try  to  be 
good  !" 

Blinding  tears  came  to  my  eyes,  and  I  saw  this  scene 
no  longer.  I  was  out  among  the  works  of  nature,  and 
my  instructor  was  by  my  side. 

u  Despise  not  again  the  humble  and  tne  common- 
place," said  he,  "  for  upon  these  rest  the  happiness  and 
well-being  of  the  world.  Few  can  enter  into  and 
appreciate  the  startling  and  the  brilliant,  but  thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  can  feel  and  love  the  common- 
place that  comes  to  their  daily  wants,  and  inspires  them 
with  a  mutual  sympathy.  Go  on  in  your  work. 
Think  it  Dot  low  and  mean  to  speak  humble,  yet  true 
and  fitting  words  for  the  humble ;  to  lift  up  the  bowed 
and  grieving  spirit ;  to  pour  the  oil  and  wine  of 
consolation  for  the  poor  and  afflicted.  It  is  a  great  and 


76  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

a  good  work — tho  very  work  in  which  God's  angels 
delight.  Yea,  in  doing  this  work,  you  are  brought 
nearer  in  spirit  to  Him  who  is  goodness  and  greatness 
itself,  for  all  his  acts  are  done  with  the  end  of  blessing 
his  creatures." 

There  was  another  change.  I  was  awake.  It  was 
broad  daylight,  and  the  sun  had  come  in  and  awaken- 
ed me  with  a  kiss.  Again  I  resumed  my  work,  content 
to  meet  the  common  want  in  my  labors,  and  let  tho 
more  gifted  and  brilliant  ones  around  me  enjoy  the 
honors  and  fame  that  gathered  in  cloudy  incense  around 
them. 

It  is  better  to  be  loved  by  the  many,  than  admired 
by  the  few. 


JENNY  LAWSON 


CHAPTER  I. 

MARK  CLIFFORD  had  come  up  from  New  York  to 
spend  a  few  weeks  with  his  maternal  grandfather,  Mr. 
Lofton,  who  lived  almost  alone  on  his  beautiful  estate  a 
few  miles  from  the  Hudson,  amid  the  rich  valleys  of 
Orange  county.  Mr.  Lofton  belonged  to  one  of  the 
oldest  families  in  the  country,  and  retained  a  large  por- 
tion of  that  aristocratic  pride  for  which  they  were  dis- 
tinguished. The  marriage  of  his  daughter  to  Mr. 
Clifford,  a  merchant  of  New  York,  had  been  strongl} 
opposed  on  the  ground  that  the  alliance  was  degrading 
— Mr.  Clifford  not  being  able  to  boast  of  an  ancestor 
who  was  anything  more  than  an  honest  man  and  a 
useful  citizen.  A  closer  acquaintance  with  his  son-in- 
law,  after  the  marriage  took  place,  reconciled  Mr. 
Lofton  in  a  good  measure  to  the  union ;  for  he  found 


78  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

Mr.  Clifford  to  be  a  man  of  fine  intelligence,  gentle- 
manly feeling,  and  withal,  tenderly  attached  to  hia 
daughter.  The  marriage  was  a  happy  one — and  this 
is  rarely  the  case  when  the  external  and  selfish  desire 

o  make  a  good -family  connection  is  regarded  above 
the  mental  and  moral  qualities  on  which  a  true  union 
only  can  be  based. 

A  few  years  previous  to  the  time  at  which  our  story 
opens,  Mrs.  Clifford  died,  leaving  one  son  and  two 
daughters.  Mark,  the  oldest  of  the  children,  was  in  his 
seventeenth  year  at  the  time  the  sad  bereavement  oc- 
curred—  the  girls  were  quite  young.  He  had  always 
been  an  active  .boy — ever  disposed  to  get  beyond  the 

judicious  restraints  which  his  parents  wisely  sought  to 
throw  around  him.  After  his  mother's  death,  he 
attained  a  wider  liberty.  He  was  still  at  college  when 
this  melancholy  event  occurred,  and  continued  therefor 
two  years  ;  but  no  longer  in  correspondence  with,  and 
therefore  not  under  the  influence  of  one  whose  love  for 
him  sought  ever  to  hold  him  back  from  evil,  his  natural 
temperament  led  him  into  the  indulgence  of  a  liberty 
that  too  often  went  beyond  the  bounds  of  propriety. 

On  leaving  college  Mr.  Clifford  conferred  with  his 
son  touching  the  profession  he  wished  to  adopt,  and  to 
his  surprise  found  him  bent  on  entering  the  navy.  All 
efforts  to  discourage  the  idea  were  of  no  avail.  The 


JENNY    LAWSON.  79 

young  man  was  for  the  navy  and  nothing  else.  Yield- 
ing at  last  to  the  desire  of  his  son,  Mr.  Clifford  entered 
the  usual  form  of  application  at  the  Navy  Yard  in 
Washington,  but,  at  the  same  time,  in  a  private  letter 
*o  the  Secretary,  intimated  his  wish  that  the  application 
might  not  be  favorably  considered. 

Time  passed  on,  but  Mark  did  not  receive  the 
anxiously  looke"d>for  appointment.  Many  reasons  were 
conjectured  by  the  young  man,  who,  at  last,  resolved 
on  pushing  through  his  application,  if  personal  efforts 
could  be  of  any  avail.  To  this  end,  he  repaired  to  the 
seat  of  government,  and  waited  on  the  Secretary.  In 
his  interviews  with  this  functionary,  some  expressions 
were  dropped  that  caused  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  to 
pass  through  his  mind.  A  series  of  rapidly  recurring 
questions  addressed  .to  the  Secretary  were  answered  in 
a  way  that  fully  confirmed  this  suspicion.  The  effect 
of  this  upon  the  excitable  and  impulsive  young  man 
will  appear  as  our  story  progresses. 

It  was  while  Mark's  application  was  pending,  and  a 
hort  time  before  his  visit  to  Washington,  that  he  came 
up  to  Fairview,  the  residence  of  his  grandfather. 
Mark  had  always  been  a  favorite  with  the  old  gentle- 
man, who  rather  encouraged  his  desire  to  enter  the 
navy. 

"The    boy    will    distinguish    himself,"   Mr.   Lofton 


80  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

would  say,  as  he  thought  over  the  matter.  And  the 
idea  of  distinction  in  the  army  or  navy,  was  grateful  to 
his  aristocratic  feelings.  "  There  is  some  of  the  right 
blood  in  his  veins  for  all." 

One  afternoon,  some  two  or  three  days  after  the 
young  man  came  up  to  Fairview,  he  was  returning  from 
a  ramble  in  the  woods  with  his  gun,  when  he  met  a 
beautiful  young  girl,  simply  attired,  and  bearing  on  her 
head  a  light  bundle  of  grain  which  she  had  gleaned  in 
a  neighboring  field.  She  was  tripping  lightly  along, 
singing  as  gaily  as  a  bird,  when  she  came  suddenly 
upon  the  young  man,  over  whose  face  there  passed  an 
instant  glow  of  admiration.  Mark  bowed  and  smiled, 
the  maiden  dropped  a  bashful  courtesy,  and  then  each 
passed  on.;  but  neither  to  forget  the  other.  When 
Mark  turned,  after  a  few  steps,  to  gaze  after  the  sweet 
wild  flower  he  had  met  so  unexpectedly,  he  saw  the 
face  again,  for  she  had  turned  also.  He  did  not  go 
home  on  that  evening,  until  he  had  seen  the  lovely 
being  who  glanced  before  him  in  her  native  beaut 
enter  a  neat  little  cottage  that  stood  half  a  mile  from 
Fairview,  nearly  hidden  by  vines,  and  overshadowed  by 
two  tall  sycamores. 

On  the  next  morning  Mark  took  his  way  toward  the 
cottage  with  his  gun.  As  he  drew  near,  the  sweet 
voice  he  had  heard  on  the  day  before  was  warbling 


JKNNT   LAWSON.  8l 

tenderly  an  old  song  his  mother  had  sung  when  he 
was  but  a  child  ;  and  with  the  air  and  words  so  well, 
remembered,  came  a  gentleness  of  feeling,  and  a  love 
of  what  was  pure  and  innocent,  such  as  he  had  not  ex- 
psrienced  for  many  years.  In  this  state  of  mind  he 
entered  the  little  porch,  and  stood  listening  for  several 
minutes  to  the  voice  that  still  flung  itself  plaintively  or 
joyfully  upon  the  air,  according  to  the  sentiment 
breathed  in  the  words  that  were  clothed  in  music ;  then 
as  the  voice  became  silent,  he  rapped  gently  at  the 
door,  which,  in  a  few  moments,  was  opened  by  the  one 
whose  attractions  had  drawn  him  thither. 

A  warm  color  mantled  the  young  girl's  face  as  her 
eyes  fell  upon  so  unexpected  a  visitor.  She  remem- 
bered him  as  the  young  man  she  had  met  on  the  eve- 
ning before ;  about  whom  she  had  dreamed  all  night, 
and  thought  much  since  the  early  morning.  Mark 
bowed,  and,  as  an  excuse  for  calling,  asked  if  her 
mother  were  at  home. 

"  My  mother  died  when  I  was  but  a  child,"  replied 
the  girl,  shrinking  back  a  step  or  two ;  for  Mark  was 
gazing  earnestly  into  her  face. 

"  Ah  !     Then  you  are  living  with  your — your — n 

u  Mrs.  Lee  has  been  a  mother  to  me  since  then," 
»aid  she,  dropping  her  eyes  to  the  floor. 

M  Then  I  will  see  the  good  woman  who  has  tskeo 
4* 


82  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

your  mother's  place."  Mark  stepped  in  as  he  spoke, 
and  took  a  chair  in  the  neat  little  sitting  room  into 
which  the  door  opened. 

"  She  has  gone  over  to  Mr.  Lofton's,"  said  the  girl,  in 
eply,  "  and  won't  be  back  for  an  hour." 

u  Has  she,  indeed  ?     Then  you  know  Mr.  Lofton  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  We  know  him  very  well.  He  owns  our 
little  cottage." 

"  Does  he !  No  doubt  you  find  him  a  good  land- 
land." 

"  He's  a  kind  man,"  said  the  girl,  earnestly. 

"  He  is,  as  I  have  good  reason  to  know,"  remarked  the 
young  man.  "  Mr.  Lofton  is  my  grandfather." 

The  girl  seemed  much  surprised  at  this  avowal,  and 
appeared  less  at  ease  than  before. 

"  And  now,  having  told  you  who  I  am,"  said  Mark, 
"  I  think  I  may  be  bold  enough  to  ask  your  name." 

"  My  name  is  Jenny  Lawson,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  A  pretty  name,  that — Jenny — I  always  liked  the 
sound  of  it.  My  mother's  name  was  Jenny.  Did  you 
ever  see  my  mother  ?  But  don't  tremble  so !  Sit 
down,  and  tell  your  fluttering  heart  to  be  still." 

Jenny  sunk  into  a  chair,  her  bosom  heaving,  and  the 
crimson  flush  still  glowing  on  her  cheeks,  while  Mark 
gazed  into  her  face  with  undisguised  admiration. 

"  Who  would  have  thought,"   said  he  to  himself, 


JENNY   LAWS01C.  83 

"  that  so  sweet  a  wild  flower  grew  in  this  out  of  the 
way  place." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  my  mother,  Jenny  ?"  asked  the 
young  man,  after  she  was  a  little  composed. 

"  Mrs.  Clifford  ?" 

"  Yes." 

«  Often." 

"  Then  we  wilj  be  friends  from  this  moment,  Jenny. 
If  you  knew  my  mother  then,  you  must  have  loved 
her.  She  has  been  dead  now  over  three  years." 

There  was  a  shade  of  sadness  in  the  young  manV 
voice  as  he  said  this. 

"  When  did  you  see  her  last  ?"  he  resumed. 

"  The  summer  before  she  died  she  came  up  from 
New  York  and  spent  two  or  three  weeks  here.  I  saw 
her  then,  almost  every  day." 

"  And  you  loved  my  mother  ?     Say  you  did  !" 

The  young  man  spoke  with  a  rising  emotion  that  he 
could  not  restrain. 

"  Every  body  loved  her,"  replied  Jenny,  simply  and 
earnestly. 

For  a  few  moments  Mark  concealed  his  face  with  his 
hands,  to  hide  the  signs  of  feeling  that  were  playing 

over  it ;  then  looking  up  again,  he  said — 

m 
"  Jenny,  because  you  knew  my  mother  and  lovfd 

her,  we  must  be  friends      It   was  a  great  loss  to  me 


84  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

when  she  died.  The  greatest  loss  I  ever  had,  or,  it 
may  be,  ever  will  have.  I  have  been  worse  since  then. 
A.h  me  !  If  she  had  only  lived  !" 

Again  Mark  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and, 
this  time,  he  could  not  keep  the  dimness  from  his  eyes. 

It  was  a  strange  sight  to  Jenny  to  see  the  young 
man  thus  moved.  Her  innocent  heart  was  drawn 
toward  him  with  a  pitying  interest,  and  she  yearned  to 
speak  words  of  comfort,  but  knew  not  what  to  say. 

After  Mark  grew  composed  again,  he  asked  Jenny  a 
great  many  questions  touching  her  knowledge  of  his 
mother ;  and  listened  with  deep  interest  and  emotion  to 
many  little  incidents  of  Jenny's  intercourse  with  her, 
which  were  related  with  all  the  artlessness  and  force  of 
truth.  In  the  midst  of  this  singular  interview,  Mrs. 
Lee  came  in  and  surprised  the  young  couple,  who, 
forgetting  all  reserve,  were  conversing  with  an  interest 
in  their  manner,  the  ground  of  which  she  might  well 
misunderstand.  Jenny  started  and  looked  confused, 
but,  quickly  recovering  herself,  introduced  Mark  as  th 
grandson  of  Mr.  Lofton. 

The  old  lady  did  not  respond  to  this  with  the 
cordiality  that  either  of  the  young  folks  had  expected. 
No,  not  by  any  means.  A  flush  of  angry  suspicion 
came  into  her  face,  and  she  said  to  Jenny  as  she 
Lauded  her  the  bonnet  she  hurriedly  removed — 


JENNY   LiWBON.  86 

"Here — take  this  into  the  other  room  and  put  it 
away." 

The  moment  Jenny  retired,  Mrs.  Lee  turned  to 
Mark,  and  after  looking  at  him  somewhat  sternly  for  a 
moment,  surprised  him  with  this  speech — 

"  If  I  ever  find  you  here  again,  young  man,  I'll 
complain  to  your  grandfather." 

"  Will  you,  indeed  !"  returned  Mark,  elevating  his 
person,  and  looking  at  the  old  lady  with  flashing  eyes. 
M  And  pray,  what  will  you  say  to  the  old  gentleman  P* 

"  Fine  doings,  indeed,  for  the  likes  o'  you  to  come 
creeping  into  a  decent  woman's  house  when  she  is 
away !"  resumed  Mrs.  Lee.  "  Jenny's  not  the  kind 
you're  looking  after,  let  me  tell  you.  What  would 
your  poor  dear  mother,  who  is  in  heaven,  God  bless 
her  !  think,  if  she  knew  of  this  ?" 

The  respectful  and  even  affectionate  reference  to  his 
mother,  softened  the  feelings  of  Mark,  who  was  growing 
very  angry. 

"  Good  morning,  old  lady,"  said  he,  as  he  turned 
way  ;  "  you  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about !" 
and  springing  from  the  door,  he  hurried  off  with  rapid 
steps.  On  reaching  a  wood  that  lay  at  some  distance 
off,  Mark  sought  a  retired  spot,  near  where  a  quiet 
stream  went  stealing  noiselessly  along  amid  its  alder 
and  willow-fringed  banks,  and  sitting  down  upon  a 


86  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

grassy  spot,  gave  himself  up  to  meditation.  Little 
inclined  was  he  now  for  sport.  The  birds  sung  in  the 
trees  above  him,  fluttered  from  branch  to  branch,  and 
even  dipped  their  wings  in  the  calm  waters  of  th 
stream,  but  he  heeded  them  not.  He  had  othe 
thoughts.  Greatly  had  old  Mrs.  Lee,  in  the  blindness 
of  her  suddenly  aroused  fears,  wronged  the  young 
man.  If  the  sphere  of  innocence  that  was  around 
the  beautiful  girl  had  not  been  all  powerful  to  subdue 
evil  thoughts  and  passions  in  his  breast,  the  reference  to 
his  mother  would  have  been  effectual  to  that  end. 

For  half  an  hour  had  Mark  remained  seated  alone, 
busy  with  thoughts  and  feelings  of  a  less  wandering 
and  adventurous  character  than  usually  occupied  his 
mind,  when,  to  his  surprise,  he  saw  Jenny  Lawson 
advancing  along  a  path  that  led  through  a  portion  of 
the  woods,  with  a  basket  on  her  arm.  She  did  not 
observe  him  until  she  had  approached  within  some 
fifteen  or  twenty  paces ;  when  he  arose  to  his  feet,  and 
she,  seeing  him,  stopped  suddenly,  and  looked  pale  an 
alarmed. 

"  I  am  glad  to  meet  you  again,  Jenny,"  said  Mark, 
going  quickly  toward  her,  and  taking  her  hand,  which 
she  yielded  without  resistance.  "  Don't  be  frightened. 
Mrs.  Lee  did  me  wrong.  Heaven  knows  I  would  not 
hurt  a  hair  of  your  head  !  Come  and  sit  down  with 


JENNY   LAWSON.  8'» 

me  in  this  quiet  place,  and  let  us  talk  about  my 
mother.  You  say  you  knew  her  and  loved  her.  Let 
her  memory  make  us  friends." 

Mark's  voice  trembled  with  feeling.  There  was 
something  about  the  girl  that  made*  the  thought  of  his 
aiother  a  holier  and  tenderer  thing.  He  had  loved  his 
mother  intensely,  and  since  her  death,  had  felt  her  loss 
as  the  saddest  calamity  that  had,  or  possibly  ever 
could,  befall  him.  Afloat  on  the  stormy  sea  of 
human  life,  he  had  seemed  like  a  mariner  without 
helm  or  compass.  Strangely  enough,  since  meeting 
with  Jenny  at  the  cottage  a  little  while  before,  the 
thought  of  her  appeared  to  bring  his  mother  nearer  to 
him  ;  and  when,  so  unexpectedly,  he  saw  her  approach- 
ing him  in  the  woods,  he  felt  momentarily,  that  it  was 
his  mother's  spirit  guiding  her  thither. 

Urged  by  so  strong  an  appeal,  Jenny  suffered  herself 
to  be  led  to  the  retired  spot  where  Mark  had  been 
reclining,  half  wondering,  half  fearful — yet  impelled  by 
a  certain  feeling  that  she  could  not  well  resist  In  fact, 
each  exercised  a  power  over  the  other,  a  power  not 
arising  from  any  determination  of  will,  but  from  a 
certain  spiritual  affinity  that  neither  comprehended. 
Some  have  called  this  "  destiny,"  but  it  has  a  better 
name. 

"Jenny,"  said   Mark,  after   they  were  seated — he 


88  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

still  retained  her  hand  in  his,  and  felt  it  tremble — "  tell 
me  something  about  my  mother.  It  will  do  me  good 
to  hear  of  her  from  your  lips." 

The  girl  tried  to  make  some  answer,  but  found  no 
utterance.  Her  lips  trembled  so  that  she  could  not 
speak.  But  she  grew  more  composed  after  a  time,  and 
then  in  reply  to  many  questions  of  Mark,  related 
incident  after  incident,  in  which  his  mother's  goodness 
of  character  stood  prominent.  The  young  man  list- 
ened intently,  sometimes  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground,  and  sometimes  gazing  admiringly  into  the 
sweet  face  of  the  young  speaker. 

Time  passed  more  rapidly  than  either  Mark  or  Jenny 
imagined.  For  full  an  hour  had  they  been  engaged  in 
earnest  conversation,  when  both  were  painfully  surprised 
by  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Lee,  who  had  sent  Jenny  on 
an  errand,  and  expected  her  early  return.  A  suspicion 
that  she  might  encounter  young  Clifford  having  flashed 
through  the  old  woman's  mind,  she  had  come  forth  to 
learn  if  possible  the  cause  of  Jenny's  long  absence. 
To  her  grief  and  anger,  she  discovered  them  sitting 
together  engaged  in  earnest  conversation. 

"  Now,  Mark  Clifford  !"  she  exclaimed  as  she 
advanced,  "  this  is  too  bad  !  And  Jenny,  you  weak 
and  foolish  girl !  are  you  madly  bent  on  seeking  tha 


JENNY    LAWSON.  89 

fowler's  snare  ?  Child  !  child  !  is  it  thus  you  repay  me 
for  my  love  and  care  over  you  !" 

Both  Mark  and  Jenny  started  to  their  feet,  the  face 
of  the  former  flushed  with  instant  anger,  and  that  of 
the  other  pale  from  alarm. 

"  Come !"  and  Mrs.  Lee  caught  hold  of  Jenny's 
arm  and  drew  her  away.  As  they  moved  off,  the 
former,  glancing  back  at  Mark,  and  shaking  her  finger 
towards  him,  said — 

"  I'll  see  your  grandfather,  young  man  !" 

Fretted  by  this  second  disturbance  of  an  interview 
with  Jenny,  and  angry  at  an  unjust  imputation  of 
motive,  Mark  dashed  into  the  woods,  with  his  gun  in 
his  hand,  and  walked  rapidly,  but  aimlessly,  for  nearly 
an  hour,  when  he  found  himself  at  the  summit  of  a 
high  mountain,  from  which,  far  down  and  away  towards 
the  east,  he  could  see  the  silvery  Hudson  winding  along 
like  a  vein  of  silver.  Here,  wearied  with  his  walk,  and 
faint  in  spirit  from  over  excitement,  he  sat  down  to 
rest  and  to  compose  his  thoughts.  Scarcely  intelligible 
to  himself  were  his  feelings.  The  meeting  with  Jenny, 
and  the  effect  upon  him,  were  things  that  he  did  no* 
clearly  understand.  Her  influence  over  him  was  a 
mystery.  In  fact,  what  had  passed  so  hurriedly,  was 
to  him  more  like  a  dream  than  a  reality. 

No  further  idea  of  sport  entered  the  mind  of  the 


90  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

young  man  on  that  day.  He  remained  until  after  the 
sun  had  passed  the  meridian  in  this  retired  place,  and 
then  went  slowly  back,  passing  the  cottage  of  Mrs. 
Lee  on  his  return.  He  did  not  see  Jenny  as  he  had 
hoped.  On  meeting  Mr.  Lofton,  Mark  became  aware 
of  a  change  in  the  old  man's  feelings  towards  him,  and 
he  guessed  at  once  rightly  as  to  the  cause.  If  he  had 
experienced  any  doubts,  they  would  have  been  quickly 
removed. 

"  Mark  !"  said  the  old  gentleman,  sternly,  almost  the 
moment  the  grandson  came  into  his  presence,  "  I  wish 
you  to  go  back  to  New  York  to-morrow.  I  presume 
I  need  hardly  explain  my  reason  for  this  wish,  when  I 
tell  you  that  I  have  just  had  a  visit  from  old  Mrs 


The  fiery  spirit  of  Mark  was  stung  into  madness  by 
this  further  reaction  on  him  in  a  matter  that  involved 
nothing  of  criminal  intent.  Impulsive  in  his  feelings, 
and  quick  to  act  from  them,  he  replied  with  a  calmness 
and  even  sadness  in  his  voice  that  Mr.  Lofton  did  not 
expect  —  the  calmness  was  from  a  strong  effort  :  the 
sadness  expressed  his  real  feelings  : 

"  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  my  presence  an  hour 
longer.  If  evil  arise  from  this  trampling  of  good 
impulse  out  of  my  heart,  the  sin  rest  on  your  own 
head.  I  never  was  and  never  can  be  patient  under  a 


JENNY    LAWSON.  91 

false  judgment.  Farewell,  grandfather  !  We  may 
never  meet  again.  If  you  hear  of  evil  befalling  me, 
think  of  it  as  having  some  connection  with  this  hour." 

With  these  words  Mark  turned  away  and  left  the 
house.  The  old  man,  in  grief  and  alarm  at  the  effec 
of  his  words,  called  after  him,  but  he  heeded  him  not 

"Run  after  him,  and  tell  him  to  come  back,"  he 
cried  to  a  servant  who  stood  near  and  had  listened  to 
what  had  passed  between  them.  The  order  was 
obeyed,  but  it  was  of  no  avail.  Mark  returned  a  bitter 
answer  to  the  message  he  brought  him,  and  continued 
on  his  way.  As  he  was  hurrying  along,  suddenly  he 
encountered  Jenny.  It  was  strange  that  he  should 
meet  her  so  often.  There  was  something  in  it  moro 
than  accident,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  so. 

"  God  bless  you,  Jenny  !"  he  exclaimed  with  much 
feeling,  catching  hold  of  her  hand  and  kissing  it. 
"  We  may  never  meet  again.  They  thought  I  meant 
you  harm,  and  have  driven  me  away.  But,  Heaven 
knows  how  little  of  evil  purpose  was  in  my  heart ! 
Farewell !  Sometimes,  when  you  are  kneeling  to  say 
your  nightly  prayers,  think  of  me,  and  breathe  my 
name  in  your  petitions.  I  will  need  the  prayers  of  the 
innocent.  Farewell !" 

And  under  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  Mark  bent 
forward  and  pressed  his  lips  fervently  upon  her  pure 


92  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

forehead  ;  then,  springing  away,  left  her  bewildered  and 
in  tears. 

Mark  hurried  on  towards  the  nearest  landing  place 
on  the  river,  some  three  miles  distant,  which  he 
reached  just  as  a  steamboat  was  passing.  Waving  his 
handkerchief,  as  a  signal,  the  boat  rounded  to,  and 
touching  at  the  rude  pier,  took  him  on  board.  He 
arrived  in  New  York  that  evening,  and  on  the  next 
morning  started  for  Washington  to  see  after  his 
application  for  a  midshipman's  appointment  in  the 
navy.  It  was  on  this  occasion  that  the  young  man 
became  aware  of  the  secret  influence  of  his  father 
against  the  application  which  had  been  made.  Tlis 
mind,  already  feverishly  excited,  lost  its  balance  under 
this  new  disturbing  cause. 

"  He  will  repent  of  this  !"  said  he,  bitterly,  as  he  left 
the  room  of  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy,  "  and  repent  it 
until  the  day  of  his  death.  Make  a  fixture  of  me  in  a 
counting  room  !  Shut  me  up  in  a  lawyer's  office ! 
Lock  me  down  in  a  medicine  chest !  Mark  Clifford 
never  will  submit !  If  I  cannot  enter  the  service  in  one 
way  I  will  in  another." 

Without  pausing  to  weigh  the  consequences  of  his 
act,  Mark,  in  a  spirit  of  revenge  towards  his  father,  went, 
while  the  fever  was  on  him,  to  the  Navy  Yard,  and 
there  entered  the  United  States  service  as  a  common 


JENNY    LAWSON.  93 

sailor,  under  the  name  of  Edward  James.  On  the  day 
following,  the  ship  on  board  of  which  he  had  enlisted 
was  gliding  down  the  Potomac,  and,  in  a  week  after,  left 
Hampton  Roads  and  went  to  sea. 

From  Norfolk,  Mr.  Clifford  received  a  brief  note 
written  by  his  son,  upbraiding  him  for  having  defeated 
the  application  to  the  department,  and  avowing  the  fact 
that  he  had  gone  *o  sea  in  the  erovmnient  service,  as  a 
common  sailor.  " 


CHAPTER    II. 

IT  was  .impossible  for  such  passionate  interviews, 
brief  though  they  were,  to  take  place  without  leaving 
on  the  heart  of  a  simple  minded  girl  like  Jenny 
Lawson,  a  deep  impression.  New  impulses  were  given 
to  her  feelings,  and  a  new  direction  to  her  thoughts. 
Nature  told  her  that  Mark  Clifford  loved  her  ;  and 
nothing  but  his  cold  disavowal  of  the  fact  could  possibly 
have  affected  this  belief.  He  had  met  her,  it  was  true, 
only  three  or  four  times ;  but  their  interviews  during 
these  meetings  had  been  of  a  character  to  leave  no 
ordinary  effect  behind.  So  long  as  her  eyes,  dimmed 
by  overflowing  tears,  could  follow  Mark's  retiring  form, 
she  gazed  eagerly  after  him ;  and  when  he  was  rrt 
length  hidden  from  her  view,  she  sat  down  to  pour  out 
her  heart  in  passionate  weeping. 

Old  Mi-s.  Lee,  while  she  tenderly  loved  the  sweet 
flower  that  had  grown  up  under  her  care,  was  not,  in 


JENNY   LAWSON.  95 

all  things,  a  wise  and  discreet  woman ;  nor  deeply 
versed  in  the  workings  of  the  human  heart 

Rumor  of  Mark's  wildness  had  found  its  way  to  the 
neighborhood  of  Fairview,  and  made  an  unfavorable 
impression.  Mrs.  Lee  firmly  believed  that  he  was 
moving  with,  swift  feet  in  the  way  to  destruction,  and 
rolling  evil  under  his  tongue  as  a  sweet  morsel.  When 
she  heard  of  hjs  arrival  at  his  grandfather's,  a  fear 
came  upon  her  lest  he  should  cast  his  eyes  upon  Jenny. 
No  wonder  that  she  met  the  young  man  with  such  a 
quick  repulse,  when,  to  her  alarm,  she  found  that  he 
had  invaded  her  home,  and  was  already  charming  the 
ear  of  the  innocent  child  she  so  tenderly  loved  and 
cared  for.  To  find  them  sitting  alone  in  the  woods, 
only  a  little  while  afterwards,  almost  maddened  her ; 
and  so  soon  as  she  took  Jenny  home,  she  hurried  over 
to  Mr.  Lofton,  and  in  a  confused,  exaggerated,  and 
intemperate  manner,  complained  of  the  conduct  of 
Mark. 

"  Together  alone  in  the  woods  !"  exclaimed  the  old 
gentleman,  greatly  excited.  "  What  does  the  girl 
mean  ?" 

"  What  does  he  mean,  thus  to  entice  away  my 
innocent  child  ?"  said  Mrs.  Lee,  equally  excited.  "  Oh, 
Mr.  Lofton  !  for  goodness'  sake,  send  him  back  to  New 
York  !  If  he  remain  here  a  day  longer,  all  may  be 


96  HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE   PICTURES. 

lost !  Jenny  is  bewitched  with  him.  She  cried  as  if 
her  heart  would  break  when  I  took  her  back  home,  and 
said  that  I  had  done  wrong  to  Mark  in  what  I  had  said 
to  him." 

"  Weak  and  foolish  child !  How  little  does  she 
know  of  the  world — how  little  of  the  subtle  human 
heart !  Yes — yes,  Mrs.  Lee,  Mark  shall  go  back  at 
once.  He  shall  not  remain  here  a  day  longer,  to 
breathe  his  blighting  breath  on  so  sweet  a  flower. 
Jenny  is  too  good  a  girl  to  be  exposed  to  such  an 
influence." 

The  mind  of  Mr.  Lofton  remained  excited  for  hours 
after  this  interview  ;  and  when  Mark  appeared,  he  met 
him  as  has  already  been  seen.  The  manner  in  which  the 
young  man  received  the  angry  words  of  his  grandfather, 
was  a  little  different  from  what  had  been  anticipated. 
Mr.  Lofton  expected  some  explanation  by  which  he 
could  understand  more  clearly  what  was  in  the  young 
man's  thoughts.  When,  therefore,  Mark  abruptly 
turned  from  him  with  such  strange  language  on  his 
tongue,  Mr.  Lofton's  anger  cooled,  and  he  felt  that  he 
had  suffered  himself  to  be  misled  by  a  hasty  judgment. 
That  no  evil  had  been  in  the  young  man's  mind  he  was 
sure.  It  was  this  change  that  had  prompted  him  to 
make  an  effort  to  recall  him.  But,  the  effort  was 
fruitless. 


JENNY   LAWSON.  97 

On  Jenny's  return  home,  after  her  last  interview  with 
Mark,  she  found  a  servant  there  with  a  summons  from 
Mr.  Lofton.  With  much  reluctance  she  repaired  to  the 
mansion  house.  On  meeting  with  the  old  gentleman 
he  received  her  in  a  kind  but  subdued  manner ;  but,  as 
for  Jenny  herself,  she  stood  in  his  presence  weeping  and 
trembling. 

"  Jenny,"  said  Mr.  Lofton,  after  the  girl  had  grown 
more  composed,  * "  when  did  you  first  meet  my 

grandson  ?" 

Jenny  mentioned  the  accidental  meeting  on  the  day 
before,  and  the  call  at  the  cottage  in  the  morning. 

"  And  you  saw  him  first  only  yesterday  fn 

"  Yes." 

"  What  did  he  say  when  he  called  this  morning  T 

"  He  asked  for  my  mother." 

"  Your  mother  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  told  him  that  my  mother  was  dead,  and 
that  I  lived  with  Mrs.  Lee.  He  then  wanted  to  see 
her  ;  but  I  said  that  she  had  gone  over  to  your  house.' 

"  What  did  he  say  then  2" 

"  He  spoke  of  you,  and  said  you  were  a  good  man, 
and  that  we  no  doubt  found  you  a  good  landlord.  I 
nad  mentioned  that  you  owned  our  cottage." 

Mr.  Lofton  appeared  affected  at  this. 

"  What  then  T  he  continued. 
5 


98  HEART    HISTORIES   AND    LIFE   PICTURES. 

"  He  told  me  who  be  was,  and  then  asked  me  my 
name.  When  I  told  him  that  it  was  Jenny,  he  said  it 
was  a  good  name,  and  that  he  always  liked  the  sound 
of  it,  for  his  mother's  name  was  Jenny.  Then  he 
asked  me  if  I  had  known  his  mother,  and  when  I  said 
yes,  he  wanted  to  know  if  I  loved  her.  I  said  yes — 
for  you  know  we  all  loved  her.  Then  he  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands,  and  I  saw  the  tears  coming 
through  his  fingers.  '  Because  you  knew  my  mother, 
and  loved  her,  Jenny,'  said  he,  '  we  will  be  friends.' 
Afterwards  he  asked  me  a  great  many  questions  about 
her,  and  listened  with  the  tears  in  his  eyes,  when  I  tolc 
him  of  many  things  she  had  said  and  done  the  lasA. 
time  she  was  up  here.  We  were  talking  together 
about  his  mother,  when  Mrs.  Lee  came  in.  She  spoke 
cross  to  him,  and  threatened  to  complain  to  you,  if  he 
came  there  any  more.  He  went  away  angry.  But 
I'm  sure  he  meant  nothing  wrong,  sir.  How  could  he, 
and  talk  as  he  did  about  his  mother  in  heaven  ?" 

"  But,  how  came  you  to  meet  him  in  the  woods. 
Jenny  ?"  said  Mr.  Lofton.  "  Did  he  tell  you  that  he 
would  wait  there  for  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir.  The  meeting  was  accidental.  I  was 
sent  over  to  Mrs.  Jasper's  on  an  errand,  and,  in  passing 
through  the  woods,  saw  him  sitting  alone  and  looking 
very  unhappy.  I  was  frightened  ;  but  he  told  me 


JESNY    LAWSON.  99 

that  lie  wouldn't  hurt  a  hair  of  my  head.  Then  ha 
made  me  sit  down  upon  the  grass  beside  him,  and  taTk 
to  him  about  his  mother.  He  asked  me  a  great  many 
questions,  and  I  told  him  all  that  I  could  remember 
about  her.  Sometimes  the  tears  would  steal  over  his 
cheeks  ;  and  sometimes  he  would  say — '  Ah  !  if  my 
mother  had  not  died.  Her  death  was  a  great  loss  to 
me,  Jenny — a  great  loss-»-and  I  have  been  worse  for 
it'" 

"  And  was  this  all  you  talked  about,  Jenny,"  asked 
Mr.  Lofton,  who  was  much  affected  by  the  artless 
narrative  of  the  girl. 

"  It  was  all  about  his  mother,"  replied  Jenny.  "  He 
said  that  I  not  only  bore  her  name,  but  that  I  looked 
like  her,  and  that  it  seemed  to  him,  while  with  me,  that 
she  was  present." 

"  He  said  that,  did  he  !"  Mr.  Lofton  spoke  more 
earnestly,  and  looked  intently  upon  Jenny's  face. 
"  Yes — yes — it  is  so.  She  does  look  like  dear  Jenny," 
he  murmured  to  himself.  "I  never  saw  this  before. 
Dear  boy  !  We  have  done  him  wrong.  These  hasty 
conclusions — ah,  me !  To  how  much  evil  do  they 
lead?' 

"  And  you  were  talking  thus,  when  Mrs.  Lee  found 
you?" 

«*  V«»  tar  " 

A  co,  air. 


100          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  What  did  she  say  ?" 

"  I  can 'hardly  tell  what  she  said,  I  was  so  frightened. 
But  I  know  she  spoke  angrily  to  him  and  to  me,  and 
threatened  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Lofton  sighed  deeply,  then  added,  as  if  the 
remark  were  casual — 

"  An.l  that  is  the  last  you  have  seen  of  him." 

"  No,  sir ;  I  met  him  a  little  while  ago,  as  he  was 
hurrying  away  from  your  house." 

"  You  did !"  Mr.  Lofton  started  at  Jenny's  unex- 
pected reply. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Did  he  speak  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes ;  he  stopped  and  caught  hold  of  my  hand, 
saying,  '  God  bless  you,  Jenny  !  We  may  never  meet 
again.  They  have  driven  me  away,  because  they 
thought  I  meant  to  harm  you.'  But  he  said  nothing 
wrong  was  in  his  heart,  and  asked  me  to  pray  for  him, 
as  he  would  need  my  prayers." 

At  this  part  of  her  narrative,  Jenny  wept  bitterly, 
and  her  auditor's  eyes  became  dim  also. 

Satisfied  that  Jenny's  story  was  true  in  every 
particular,  Mr.  Lofton  spoke  kindly  to  her  and  sent  her 
home. 

A  week  after  Maik  Clifford  left  Fail-view,  word  came 
that  he  had  enlisted  in  the  United  States'  service  and 


JENNY   LAWSON.  101 

gone  to  sea  as  a  common  sailor ;  accompanying  this 
intelligence  was  an  indignant  avowal  of  his  father  that 
he  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him.  To  old 
Mr.  Lofton  this  was  a  serious  blow.  In  Mark  he  had 
hoped  to  see  realized  some  of  his  ambitious  desires. 
His  daughter  Jenny  had  been  happy  in  her  marriage, 
but  the  union  never  gave  him  much  satisfaction.  She 
was  to  have  be.en  the  wife  of  one  more  distinguished 
than  a  mere  plodding  money-making  merchant 

Painful  was  the  shock  that  accompanied  the  prostra- 
tion of  old  Mr.  Lofton's  ambitious  hopes  touching  his 
grandson,  of  whom  he  had  always  been  exceedingly 
fond.  To  him  he  had  intended  leaving  the  bulk  of  his 
property  when  he  died.  But  now  anger  and  resent- 
ment arose  in  his  mind  against  him  as  unworthy  sucH 
a  preference,  and  in  the  warmth  of  a  moment's  impulse, 
he  corrected  his  will  and  cut  him  off  with  a  dollar. 
This  was  no  sooner  done  than  better  emotions  stirred  in 
the  old  man's  bosom,  and  he  regretted  the  hasty  act ; 
but  pride  of  consistency  prevented  his  recalling  it 

From  that  time  old  Mr.  Lofton  broke  down  rapidly. 
In  six  months  he  seemed  to  have  added  ten  years  to 
his  life.  During  that  period  no  news  had  come  from 
Mark  ;  who  was  not  only  angry  with  both  his  father 
and  grandfather,  but  felt  that  in  doing  what  he  had 
done,  he  had  offended  them  beyond  the  hope  of 


102          HEAKT    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

forgiveness.  He,  therefore,  having  taken  a  rash  step, 
moved  on  in  the  way  he  had  chosen,  in  a  spirit  of 
recklessness  and  defiance.  The  ties  of  blood  which  had 
bound  him  to  his  home  were  broken  ;  the  world  was  all 
before  him,  and  he  must  make  his  way  in  it.  alone. 
The  life  of  a  common  sailor  in  a  government  ship  he 
found  to  be  something  different  from  what  he  had 
imagined,  when,  acting  under  a  momentary  excitement, 
he  was  so  mad  as  to  enlist  in  the  service.  Unused  to 
work  or  ready  obedience,  he  soon  discovered  that  his 
life  was  to  be  one  not  only  of  bodily  toil,  pushed  some- 
times to  the  extreme  of  fatigue,  but  one  of  the  most 
perfect  subordination  to  the  will  of  others,  under  pain 
of  corporeal  punishment.  The  first  insolent  word  of 
authority  passed  to  him  by  a  new  fledged  midshipman, 
his  junior  by  at  least  three  years,  stung  him  so  deeply 
that  it  was  only  by  a  most  violent  effort  that  he  could 
master  the  impulse  that  prompted  him  to  seize  and 
throw  him  overboard.  He  did  not  regret  this  success- 
ful effort  at  self-control,  when,  a  few  hours  afterwards, 
he  was  compelled  to  witness  the  punishment  of  the  cat 
inflicted  on  a  sailor  for  the  offence  of  insolence  to  an 
officer.  The  sight  of  the  poor  man,  writhing  under  the 
brutality  of  the  lash,  made  an  impression  on  him  that 
nothing  could  efface.  It  absorbed  his  mind  and 


JENNY    LAWSON.  103 

"brought  it  into  a  healthier  state  of  reflection  than  it  had 
yet  been. 

"  I  Lave  placed  myself  in  this  position  by  a  rash 

act,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  turned,  sick  at  heart 

< 

away  from  the  painful  and  disgusting  sight.  "  And  all 
rebellion  against  the  authority  around  me  will  but 
make  plainer  my  own  weakness.  I  have  degraded 
myself;  but  thete  is  a  lower  degradation  still,  and  that 
I  must  avoid*  Drag  me  to  the  gangway,  and  I  am 
lost !" 

Strict  obedience  and  submission  was  from  that  time 
self-compelled  on  the  part  of  Mark  Clifford.  It  was  not 
without  a  strong  effort,  however,  that  he  kept  down 
Jhe  fiery  spirit  within  him.  A  word  of  insolent  com- 
mand— and  certain  of  the  youug  midshipmen  on  board 
could  not  speak  to  a  sailor  even  if  he  were  old  as 
their  father,  except  in  a  tone  of  insult — would  send  the 
blood  boiling  through  his  veins. 

It  wa*  only  by  the  narrowest  chances  that  Mark 
escaped  punishment  during  the  first  six  months  of  the 
cruise,  which  was  in  the  Pacific.  If  he  succeeded  it 
bridling  his  tongue,  and  restraining  his  hands  from 
violence,  he  could  not  hide  the  indignant  flash  of  his 
eyes,  nor  school  the  muscles  of  his  face  into  submission. 
They  revealed  the  wild  spirit  of  rebellion  that  was  in 
his  heart  Intelligent  promptness  in  duty  saved  him. 


104         HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES 

This  was  seen  by  his  superior  officers,  and  it  was  so 
much  in  his  favor  when  complaints  came  from  the 
petty  tyrants  of  the  ship  who  sometimes  shrunk  from 
the  fierce  glance  that  in  a  moment  of  struggling 
passion  would  be  cast  upon  them.  After  a  trying 
ordeal  of  six  months,  he  was  favored  by  one  of  the 
officers  who  saw  deeper  than  the  rest,  and  gathered 
from  him  a  few  hints  as  to  his  true  character.  In 
pitying  him,  he  made  use  of  his  influence"  to  save  him 
from  some  of  the  worst  consequences  of  his  position. 

Jenny  Lawson  was  a  changed  girl  after  her  brief 
meeting  with  Mark  Clifford.  Before,  she  had  been  as 
light  hearted  and  gay  as  a  bird.  But,  her  voice  was 
no  longer  heard  pouring  forth  the  sweet  melodies  born 
of  a  happy  heart.  Much  of  her  time  she  sought  to  be 
alone ;  and  when  alone,  she  usually  sat  in  a  state  of 
dreamy  absent-mindedness.  As  for  her  thoughts,  they 
were  most  of  the  time  on  Clifford.  His  hand  had  stirred 
the  waters  of  affection  in  her  gentle  bosom ;  -and  they 
knew  no  rest.  Mr.  Lofton  frequently  sent  for  her  to 
come  over  to  the  mansion  house.  He  never  spoke  to 
her  of  Mark  ;  nor  did  she  mention  his  name — though 
both  thought  of  him  whenever  they  were  together. 
The  oftener  Mr.  Lofton  saw  Jenny,  and  the  more  he 
was  with  her,  the  more  did  she  remind  him  of  his  own 
«ost  child — his  Jenny,  the  mother  of  Mark — now  in 


JENNY    LAWSON.  105 

heaven.  The  incident  of  meeting  with  young  Clifford 
'had  helped  to  develop  Jenny's  character,  and  give  it  a 
stronger  type  than  otherwise  would  have  been  the  case. 
Thus,  she  became  to  Mr.  Lofton  companionable ;  and, 
ere  a  year  had  elapsed  from  the  time  Mark  went  away, 
Mrs.  Lee,  having  passed  to  her  account,  she  was  taken 
into  his  house,  and  he  had  her  constantly  with  him. 
As  he  continued  to  fail,  he  leaned  upon  the  affectionate 
girl  more  and  miore  heavily  ;  and  was  never  contented 
when  she  was  away  from  him. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  represent  clearly  Jenny's 
state  of  feeling  during  this  period.  A  simple  minded, 
innocent,  true-hearted  girl,  in  whose  bosom  scarce  beat  a 
single  selfish  impulse,  she  found  herself  suddenly  ap- 
proached by  one  in  station  far  above  her,  in  a  way  that 
left  her  heart  unguarded.  He  had  stooped  to  her,  and 
leaned  upon  her,  and  she,  obeying  an  impulse  of  her 
nature,  had  stood  firmer  to  support  him  as  he  leaned. 
Their  tender,  confiding,  and  delightful  intercourse,  con- 
tinued only  for  a  brief  season,  and  was  then  rudely 
broken  in  upon ;  forced  separation  was  followed  by 
painful  consequences  to  the  young  man.  When  Jenny 
\hought  of  how  Mark  had  been  driven  away  on  her 
account,  she  felt  that  in  order  to  save  him  from  the 
evils  that  must  be  impending  over  him,  she  would 

devote  even   her  life  in  his  service.     But,  what  could 
5* 


106          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

she  do  ?  This  desire  to  serve  him  had  also  anothef 
origin.  A  deep  feeling  of  love  had  been  awakened ; 
and,  though  she  felt  it  to  be  hopeless,  she  kept  the 
flame  brightly  burning. 

Intenser  feelings  produced  more  active  thoughts,  and 
the  mind  of  Jenny  took  a  higher  development.  A 
constant  association  with  Mr.  Lofton,  who  required  her 
to  read  to  him  sometimes  for  hours  each  day,  filled  her 
thoughts  with  higher  ideas  than  any  she  had  known, 
and  gradually  widened  the  sphere  of  her  intelligence. 
Thus  she  grew  more  and  more  companionable  to  the 
old  man,  who,  in  turn,  perceiving  that  her  mind  was 
expanding,  took  pains  to  give  it  a  right  direction,  so  far 
as  external  knowledges  were  concerned. 

Soon  after  Mark  went  to  sea,  Jenny  took  pains  to 
inform  herself  accurately  as  to  the  position  and  duties 
of  a  common  sailor  on  board  of  a  United  States'  vessel. 
She  was  more  troubled  about  Mark  after  this,  for  she 
understood  how  unfitted  he  was  for  the  hard  service  he 
entered  upon  so  blindly. 

One  day,  it  was  over  a  year  from  the  time  that  Mark 
left  Fairview,  Mr.  Lofton  sent  for  Jenny,  and,  on  her 
coming  into  his  room,  handed  her  a  sealed  letter,  but 
without  making  any  remark.  On  it  was  superscribed 
her  name  ;  and  it  bore,  besides,  the  word  "  Ship"  in  red 
printed  letters,  "  Valparaiso,"  also,  was  written  upon  it. 


JENNY    LAWSON.  107 

Jenny  looked  at  the  letter  wonderingly,  for  a  moment 
or  two,  and  then,  with  her  heart  throbbing  wildly,  left 
the  room.  On  breaking  the  seal,  she  found  the  letter 
to  be  from  Mark.  It  was  as  follows  : 

"  U.  S.  SHIP , 

Valparaiso,  September  4,  18 — , 
"My  GENTLE  FRIEND. — A  year  has  passed  since 
our  brief  meeting  and  unhappy  parting.  I  do  not 
think  you  have  forgotten  me  in  that  time ;  you  may  be 
sure  I  have  not  forgotten  you.  The  memory  of  one 
about  whom  we  conversed,  alone  would  keep  yout 
image  green  in  my  thoughts.  Of  the  rash  step  I  took 
you  have  no  doubt  heard.  In  anger  at  unjust 
treatment  both  from  my  father  and  grandfather,  I  was 
weak  enough  to  enter  the  United  States'  service  as  a 
sailor.  Having  committed  this  folly,  and  being  unwill- 
ing to  humble  myself,  and  appeal  to  friends  who  had 
wronged  me  for  their  interest  to  get  me  released,  I 
have  looked  the  hardship  and  degradation  before  me  in 
the  face,  and  sought  to  encounter  it  manfully.  The 
ordeal  has  been  thus  far  most  severe,  and  I  have  yet 
two  years  of  trial  before  me.  As  I  am  where  I  am  by 
my  own  act,  I  will  not  complain,  and  yet,  I  have  felt  it 
hard  to  be  cut  off  from  all  the  sympathy  and  kind  in- 
terest of  my  friends — to  have  no  word  from  home — to 
feel  that  none  cares  for  me.  I  know  that  I  have  oftend- 


108          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

ed  both  my  father  and  grandfather  past  forgiveness,  and 
my  mind  is  made  up  to  seek  for  no  reconciliation  with 
them.  I  cannot  stoop  to  that.  I  have  too  much  of 
the  blood  of  the  Loftons  in  my  veins. 

"  But  why  write  this  to  you,  Jenny  ?  You  will 
hardly  understand  how  such  feelings  can  govern  any 
heart — your  own  is  so  gentle  and  innocent  in  all  of  its 
impulses.  I  have  other  things  to  say  to  you  !  Since 
our  meeting  I  have  never  ceased  to  think  of  you  !  I 
need  no  picture  of  your  face,  for  I  see  it  ever  before  me 
as  distinctly  as  if  sketched  by  the  painter's  art.  I 
sometimes  ask  myself  wonderingly,  how  it  is  that  you, 
a  simple  country  maiden,  could,  in  one  or  two  brief 
meetings,  have  made  so  strong  an  impression  upon 
me  ?  But,  you  bore  my  mother's  name,  and  your  face 
was  like  her  dear  face.  Moreover,  the  beauty  of  good- 
ness was  in  your  countenance,  and  a  sphere  of  innocence 
around  you ;  and  I  had  not  strayed  so  far  from  virtue's 
paths  as  to  be  insensible  to  these.  Since  we  parted, 
Jenny,  you  have  seemed  ever  present  with  me,  as  an  angel 
of  peace  and  protection.  In  the  moment  when  passion 
was  about  overmastering  me,  you  stood  by  my  side,  and 
I  seemed  to  hear  your  voice  speaking  to  the  rising 
Btorm,  and  hushing  all  into  calmness.  When  my  feet 
have  been  ready  to  step  aside,  you  instantly  approached 
and  pointed  to  the  better  way.  Last  night  I  had  a 


* 

JENNY    LAWSON.  109 

dream,  and  it  is  because  of  that  dream  that  I  now 
write  to  you.  I  have  often  felt  like  writing  before* 
now  I  write  because  I  cannot  help  it.  I  am  moved  to 
do  so  by  something  that  I  cannot  resist. 

"  Yesterday  I  had  a  difficulty  with  an  officer  whi 
has  shewn  a  disposition  to  domineer  over  me  ever  since 
the  cruise  commenced.  He  complained  to  the  com- 
mander, who  has,  in  more  than  one  instance  shown  me 
kindness.  The  commander  said  that  I  must  make 
certain  concessions  to  the  officer,  which  I  felt  as  humil- 
iating; that  good  discipline  required  this,  and  that 
unless  I  did  so,  he  would  be  reluctantly  compelled  to 
order  me  to  the  gangway.  Thus  far  I  had  avoided 
punishment  by  a  strict  obedience  to  duty.  No  lash 
had  ever  touched  me.  That  degradation  I  felt  would 
be  my  ruin  ;  and  in  fear  of  the  result  I  bore  much, 
rather  than  give  any  petty  officer  the  power  to  have 
me  punished.  '  Let  me  sleep  over  it,  Captain,'  said  I, 
so  earnestly,  that  my  request  was  granted. 

"  Troubled  dreams  haunted  me  as  I  lay  in  my 
hammock  that  night.  At  last  I  seemed  to  be  afloat  on 
the  wide  ocean,  on  a  single  plank,  tossing  about  with 
the  hot  sun  shining  fiercely  upon  me,  and  monsters  of 
the  great  deep  gathering  around,  eager  for  their  prey. 
I  was  weak,  faint,  and  despairing.  In  vain  did  my 
eyes  sweep  the  horizon,  there  was  neither  vessel  nor 


* 

110          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

land  in  sight.  At  length  the  sun  went  down,  and  the 
darkness  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  Then  I  could  see 
nothing  but  the  stars  shining  above  me.  In  this 
moment,  when  hope  .seemed  about  leaving  my  heart 
oiever,  a  light  came  suddenly  around  me.  On  looking 
up  I  saw  a  boat  approaching.  In  the  bow  stood  -my 
mother,  and  you  sat  guiding  the  helm  !  She  took  my 
hand,  and  I  stepped  into  the  boat  with  a  thrill  of  joy 
at  my  deliverance.  As  I  did  so,  she  kissed  me,  looked 
tenderly  towards  you,  and  faded  from  my  sight.  Then 
I  awoke. 

"  The  effect  of  all  this  was  to  subdue  my  haughty 
spirit.  As  soon  as  an  opportunity  offered,  I  made 
every  desired  concession  for  my  fault,  and  was  forgiven. 
And  now  I  am  writing  to  you,  I  feel  as  if  there  was 
something  in  that  dream,  Jenny.  Ah  !  Shall  I  ever 
see  your  face  again  !  Heaven  only  knows  ! 

"  I  send  this  letter  to  you  in  care  of  my  grandfather. 
I  know -that  he  w-ill  not  retain  it  or  seek  to  know  its 
contents.  Unless  he  should  ask  after  me,  do  not  speak 
to  him  or  any  one  of  what  I  have  written  to  you. 
Farewell !  Do  not  forget  me  in  your  prayers. 

MARK  CLIFFORD." 

The  effect  of  this  letter  upon  Jenny,  was  to  interest 
her  intensely.  The  swell  of  emotion  went  deeper,  and 


JKNXY    LAWSON.  Ill 

the  activity  of  her  mind  took  a  still  higher  character, 
It 'was  plain  to  her,  when  she  next  came  into  Mr. 
Lofton's  presence,  that  his  thoughts  had  been  bu«y 
ibout  the  letter  she  had  received.  •  But  he  asked  her 
10  questions,  and,  faithful  to  the  expressed  wish  of 
Mark,  she  made  no  reference  to  the  subject  whatever. 

One  part  of  Jenny's  service  to  the  failing  old  man, 
had  been  to  read  to  him  daily  from  the  newspapers. 
This  made  her  familiar  with  what  was  passing  in  the 
world,  gave  her  food  for  thought,  and  helped  her  to 
develop  and  strengthen  her  mind.  Often  had  she 
pored  over  the  papers  for  some  news  of  Mark,  but 
never  having  heard  the  name  of  the  vessel  in  which  he 
had  gone  to  sea,  she  had  possessed  no  clue  to  find  what 
she  sought  for.  But  now,  whenever  a  paper  was 
opened,  her  first  search  was  for  naval  intelligence. 
With  what  a  throb  of  interest  did  she  one  day,  about  a 
week  after  Mark's  letter  came  to  hand,  read  an 

announcement  that  the  ship  had  been  ordered 

home,  and  might  be  expected  to  arrive  daily  at  Norfolk. 

A  woman  thinks  quickly  to  a  conclusion  ;  or,  rather,' 
arrives  there  by.  a  ptocess  quicker  than  thought  ; 
especially  where  her  conclusions  are  to  affect  a  beloved 
object.  In  an  hour  after  Jenny  had  read  the  fact  just 
stated,  she  said  to  Mr.  Lofton,  who  had  now  come  to  be 
much  attached  to  her — 


112          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  Will  you  grant  me  a  favor  ?" 
"  Ask  what  you  will,  my  child,"  replied  Mr.  Loftcn, 
with  more  than  usual  affection  in  his  tones. 
"  Let  me  have  fifty  dollars." 

"Certainly.  I  know  you  will  use  it  for  a  good 
purpose." 

Two  days  after  this  Jenny  was  in  Washington. 
She  made  the  journey  alone,  but  without  timidity  or 
fear.  Her  purpose  made  her  self-possessed  and  cour- 
ageous. On  arriving  at  the  seat  of  government,  Jenny 
inquired  for  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy.  When  she 
arrived  at  the  Department  over  which  he  presided,  and 
obtained,  an  interview,  she  said  to  him,  as  soon  as  she 
could  compose  herself — 

"  The  ship  — : —  has  been  ordered  home  from  the 
Pacific  ?" 

"  She  arrived  at  Norfolk  last  night,  and  is  now 
hourly  expected  at  the  Navy  Yard,"  replied  the 
Secretary. 

At  this  intelligence,  Jenny  was  so  much  affected  tha 
it  was  some  time  before  she  could  trust  herself  to  speak. 
"  You  have  a  brother  on  board  ?"  said  the  Secretary. 
"  There  is  a  young  man  on  board,"  replied  Jenny,  in   » 
a  tremulous  voice,  "  for  whose  discharge  I  have  come 
to  ask." 

The  Secretary  looked  grave. 


JENNY    LAWSON.  113 

"  At  whose  instance  do  you  come  ?"  he  inquired 

u  Solely  at  my  own." 

"  Who  is  the  young  man  ?" 

"  Do  you  know  Marshal  Lofton  ?" 

"  I  do,  by  reputation,  well  He  belongs  to  a  distin- 
guished family  in  New  York,  to  which  the  country 
owes  much  for  service  rendered  in  trying  times." 

"  The  discharge  I  ask,  is  for  his  grandson." 

"  Young  Clifford,  do  you  mean  ?"  The  Secretary 
looked  surprised  as  he  spoke.  "  He  is  not  in  the 
service." 

"  He  is  on  board  the  ship as  a  common  sailor." 

"  Impossible !" 

"  It  is  too  true.  In  a  moment  of  angry  disap- 
pointment he  took  the  rash  step.  And,  since  then, 
no  communication  has  passed  between  him  and  his 
friends." 

The  Secretary  turned  to  the  table  near  which  he  was 
sitting,  and,  after  writing  a  few  lines  on  a  piece  of 
paper,  rung  a  small  hand-bell  for  the  messenger,  who 
came  in  immediately. 

"  Take  this  to  Mr  J ,  and  bring  me  an  answer 

immediately." 

The  messenger  left  the  room,  and  the  Secretary  said 
to  Jenny — 

"  Wait  a  moment  or  two,  if  you  please." 


114          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

In  a  little  while  the  messenger  came  back  and 
handed  the  Secretary  a  memorandum  from  the  clerk  to 
whom  he  had  sent  for  information. 

"  There  is  no  such  person  as  Clifford  on  board  the 

hip ,  nor,  in  fact,  in  the  service  as  a  common 

sailor,"  said  the  Secretary,  addressing  Jenny,  after 
glancing  at  the  memorandum  he  had  received. 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  is ;  there  must  be,"  exclaimed  the 
now  agitated  girl.  "  I  received  a  letter  from  him  at 
Valparaiso,  dated  on  board  of  this  ship.  And,  besides, 
he  wrote  home  to  his  father,  at  the  time  he  sailed, 
declaring  what  he  had  done." 

"  Strange.  His  name  doesn't  appear  in  the  Depart- 
ment as  attached  to  the  service.  Hark  !  There's  a 
gun.  It  announces,  in  all  probability,  the  arrival  of  the 
ship at  the  Navy  Yard." 

Jenny  instantly  became  pale. 

"  Perhaps,"  suggested  the  Secretary,  "  your  best  way 
will  be  to  take  a  carriage  and  drive  down,  at  once,  to 
the  Navy  Yard.  Shall  I  direct  the  messenger  to  call  a 
carriage  for  you  ?" 

"  I  will  thank  you  to  do  so,"  replied  Jenny,  faintly. 

The  carriage  was  soon  at  the  door.  Jenny  was 
much  agitated  when  she  arrived  at  the  Navy  Yard. 

To  her  question  as  to  whether  the  ship  had 

arrived,  she  was  pointed  to  a  large  vessel  which  lav 


JENNY    LAWSON.  115 

moored  at  the  dock.  How  she  mounted  its  side  she 
hardly  knew  ;  but,  in  what  seemed  scarcely  an  instant 
of  time,  she  was  standing  on  the  deck.  To  an  officer 
who  met  her,  as  she  stepped  on  hoard,  she  asked  for 
Mark  Clifford. 

"  What  is  he  ?     A  sailor  or  marice  T 

"  A  sailor." 

u  There  is  no  such  person  on  board,  I  believe,"  said 
the  officer. 

Poor  Jenny  staggered  back  a  few  paces,  whila  a 
deadly  paleness  overspread  her  face.  As  she  leaned 
against  the  side  of  the  vessel  for  support,  a  young 
man,  dressed  as  a  sailor,  ascended  from  the  lower  deck. 
Their  eyes  met,  and  both  sprung  towards  each  other. 

"  Jenny  !  Jenny  !  is  it  you  !"  fell  passionately  from 
his  lips,  as  he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her 
fervently.  "  Bless  you  !  Bless  you,  Jenny  !  This  is 
more  than  I  had  hoped  for,"  he  added,  as  he  gazed 
fondly  into  her  beautiful  young  face. 

"  They  said  you  were  not  here,"  murmured  Jenny, 
"  and  my  heart  was  in  despair." 

"  You  asked  for  Mark  Clifford  I" 

"  Yes." 

u  I  am  not  known  in  the  service  by  that  name.  I 
entered  it  as  Edward  James." 

This    meeting,   occurring    as    it    did,   with    many 


116          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

spectators  around,  and  they  of  the  ruder  class,  was  sc 
earnest  and  tender,  yet  with  all,  so  mutually  respectftu 
and  decorous,  that  even  the  rough  sailors  were  touched 
by  the  manner  and  sentiment  of  the  interview ;  and 
more  than  one  eye  grew  dim. 

Not  long  did  Jenny  linger  on  the  deck  of  the . 

Now  that  she  had  found  Mark,  her  next  thought  was  to 
secure  his  discharge. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IT  was  little  more  than  half  an  hour  after  the  Secre- 
tary of  the  Navy  parted  with  Jenny,  ere  she  entered 
his  office  again ;  but  now  with  her  beautiful  face  flushed 
and  eager. 

"  I  have  found  him  !"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  I  knew  he 
was  on  board  this  ship  !" 

The  Secretary's  interest  had  been  awakened  by  the 
former  brief  interview  with  Jenny,  and  when  she  came 
in  with  the  announcement,  he  was  not  only  affected 
with  pleasure,  but  his  feelings  were  touched  by  her 
manner.  "  How  is  it,  then,"  he  inquired,  "  that  his 
name  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  list  of  her  crew  ?" 

"  He  entered  the  service  under  the  name  of  Edward 
James." 

» 

"Ah!  that  explains  it." 

"  And  now,  sir,"  said  Jenny,  in  a  voice  so  earnest 
and  appealing,  that  her  auditor  felt  like  granting  her 


118          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

desire  without  a  moment's  reflection :  "  I  have  come  to 
entreat  you  to  give  me  his  release." 

"  On   what  ground   do   you  make   this   request  ?" 
inquired  the  Secretary,  gazing  into  the  sweet  youn 
face  of  Jenny,  wU,h  a  feeling  of  respect  blended  wit! 
admiration. 

"  On  the  ground  of  humanity,"  was  the  simple  yet 
earnestly  spoken  reply. 

"  How  can  you  put  it  on  that  ground  ?" 

."  A  young  man  of  his  education  and  abilities  can 
serve  society  better  in  another  position." 

"  But  he  has  chosen  the  place  he  is  in." 

"  Not  deliberately.  In  a  moment  of  disappointment 
and  blind  passion  he  took  a  false  step.  Severely  has 
he  suffered  for  this  act.  Let  it  not  be  prolonged,  lest  it 
destroy  him.  One  of  his  spirit  can  scarcely  pass 
through  so  severe  an  ordeal  without  fainting.'' 

"  Does  Mr.  Lofton,  his  grandfather,  desire  what  you 
ask?" 

"  Mr.  Lofton  is  a  proud  man.  He  entertained  high 
hopes  for  Mark,  who  has,  in  this  act,  so  bitterly  disap 
pointed  them,  that  he  has  not  been  known  to  utter  hi* 
.name  since  the  news  of  his  enlistment  was  received." 

"And  his  father?" 

Jenny  shook  her  head,  sighing — 


JENNY    LAWSON.  119 

« I  don't  know  anything  about  him.  He  was  angry, 
and,  I  believe,  cast  him  off." 

"  A.nd  you,  then,  are  his  only  advocate  P 
Jenny's  eyes  dropped  to  the  floor,  and  a  deeper 
tinge  overspread  her  countenance. 

"  What  is  your  relation  to  him,  and  to  his  friends  P 
asked  the  Secretary,  his  manner  becoming  more 
serious. 

It  was  some  moments  before  Jenny  replied.  Then 
she  said,  in  a  more  subdued  voice  : 

M I  am  living  with  Mr.  Lofton.     But — 
She  hesitated,  and  then  became  silent  and  embar- 
rassed. 

"  Does  Mr.  Lofton  know  of  your  journey  to  Wash- 
ington P 

Jenny  shook  her  head. 
u  Where  did  you  tell  him  you  were  going  ?" 
"  I  said  nothing  to  him,  but  came  away  the  moment 
I  heard  the  ship  was  expected  to  arrive  at  Norfolk." 
"  Suppose  I  release  him  from  the  service  P 
'•  I  will  persuade  him  to  go  back  with  me  to  Fair- 
view,  and  then  I  know  that  all  will  be  forgiven  between 
him  and  his  grandfather.     You  don't  know  how  Mr 
Lofton  has  failed  since  Mark  went  away,"  added  Jenny 
in  a  tone  meant  to  reach  the  feelings  of  her  auditor 


120          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  He  looks  many  years  older.  Ah,  sir,  if  you  would 
only  grant  my  request !" 

"  Will  the .  young  man  return  to  his  family  !  Have 
you  spoken  to  him  about  it  ?" 

"  No ;  I  wished  not  to  create  hopes  that  might  fail. 
But  give  me  his  release,  and  I  will  have  a  claim  on 
him." 

"And  you  will  require  him  to  go  home  in  ac- 
knowledgment of  that  claim." 

"I  will  not  leave  him  till  he  goes  back,"  said 
Jenny. 

"  Is  he  not  satisfied  in  the  service  ?" 

"  How  could  he  be  satisfied  with  it  ?"  Jenny  spoke 
with  a  quick  impulse,  and  with  something  like  rebuke 
in  her  voice.  "  No  !  It  is  crushing  out  his  very  life. 
Think  of  your  own  son  in  such  a  position  !" 

There  was  something  in  this  appeal,  and  in  the  way 
it  was  uttered,  that  decided  the  Secretary's  mind.  A 
man  of  acute  observation,  and  humane  feelings,  he  not 
only  understood  pretty  clearly  the  relation  that  Jenny 
bore  to  Mark  and  his  family,  but  sympathised  with  the 
young  man  and  resolved  to  grant  the  maiden's  request. 
Leaving  her  for  a  few  minutes,  he  went  into  an  adjoin- 
ing room.  When  he  returned,  he  had  a  sealed  let- 
ter in  his  hand  directed  to  the  commander  of  the 
ship . 


JENNY    LAWSON.  121 

"  This  will  procure  his  dismissal  from  the  service," 
said  he,  as  he  reached  it  towards  Jenny. 

"  May  heaven  reward  you !"  fell  from  the  lips  of  the 
young  girl,  as  she  received  the  letter.  Then,  with  the 
tears  glistening  in  her  eyes,  she  hurriedly  left  the 
apartment. 

While  old  Mr.  Lofton  was  yet  wondering  what  Jenhy 
could  want  with  fifty  dollars,  a  servant  came  and  told 
him  that  she  had  just  heard  from  a  neighbor  who  came 
up  a  little  while  before  from  the  landing,  that  he  had 
seen  Jenny  go  on  board  of  a  steamboat  that  was  on  its 
way  to  New  York. 

"  It  can't  be  so,"  quickly  answered  Mr.  Lofton. 

"  Mr.  Jones  said,  positively,  that  it  was  her." 

"  Tell  Henry  to  go  to  Mr.  Jones  and  ask  him,  as  a 
favor,  to  step  over  and  see  me." 

In  due  time  Mr.  Jones  came. 

"  Are  you  certain  that  you  saw  Jenny  Lawson  go  on 
board  the  steamboat  for  New  York  to-day  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Lofton,  when  the  neighbor  appeared. 

tt  Oh,  yes,  sir ;  it  was  her,"  replied  the  man. 

"  Did  you  speak  to  her  ?" 

"  I  was  going  to,  but  she  hurried  past  me  without 
looking  in  my  face." 

"  Had  she  anything  with  her  T 

"  There  was  a  small  bundle  in  her  hand.** 
6 


122          HEART    HISTORIES     AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

'* Strange — strange — very  strange,*  murmured  the 
old  man  to  himself.  "  What  does  it  mean  ?  Where 
can  she  have  gone  ?" 

"  Did  she  say  nothing  about  going  away  ?"  f 

"  Nothing — nothing !" 

Mr.  Lofton's  eyes  fell  to  the  floor,  and  he  sat  thinking 
fcr  some  moments. 

"  Mr.  Jones,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  can  you  go  to 
New  York  for  me  1" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  replied  Mr.  Jones. 

"  When  will  the  morning  boat  from  Albany  pass 
here  ?" 

"  In  about  two  hours." 

"  Then  get  yourself  ready,  if  you  please,  and  come 
over  to  me.  I  do  not  like  this  of  Jenny,  and  must  find 
out  where  she  has  gone." 

Mr.  Jones  promised  to  do  as  was  desired,  and  went 
to  make  all  necessary  preparations.  Before  he  re- 
turned, a  domestic  brought  Mr.  Lofton  a  sealed  note 
bearing  his  address,  which  she  had  found  in  Jenny's 
chamber.  It  was  as  follows  : 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed  at  my  telling  you  that,  when  you 
receive  this,  I  will  be  on  a  journey  of  two  or  three 
hundred  miles  in  extent,  and  may  not  return  for  weeks. 
Believe  me,  that  my  purpose  is  a  good  one.  I  hope  to  be 
back  much  sooner  than  I  have  said.  When  I  do  get 


JENNY    LAWSON.  12? 

home,  I  know  you  will  approve  of  what  I  have  done. 
My  errand  is  one  of  Mercy. 

"  Humbly  and  faithfully  yours,        JENNY." 

It  was  some  time  before  Mr.  Lofton's  mind  grew 
calm  and  clear,  after  reading  this  note.  That  Jenny's 
absence  was,  in  some  way,  connected  with  Mark,  was  a 
thought  that  soon  presented  itself.  But,  in  what  way, 
he  could  not  make  out ;  for  he  had  never  heard  the 
name  of  the  ship  in  which  his  grandson  sailed,  and 
knew  nothing  of  her  expected  arrival  home. 

By  the  time  Mr.  Jones  appeared,  ready  to  start  on 
the  proposed  mission  to  New  York,  Mr.  Lofton  had 
made  up  his  mind  not  to  attempt  to  follow  Jenny,  but 
to  wait  for  some  word  from  her.  Not  until  this  sudden 
separation  took  place  did  Mr.  Lofton  understand  how 
necessary  to  his  happiness  the  affectionate  girl  had 
become.  So  troubled  was  he  at  her  absence,  and  so 
anxious  for  her  safety,  that  when  night  came  he  found 
himself  unable  to  sleep.  In  thinking  about  the  dangers 
that  would  gather  around  one  so  ignorant  of  the  world, 
his  imagination  magnified  the  trials  and  temptations  to 
which,  alone  as  she  was,  she  would  be  exposed.  Such 
thoughts  kept  him  tossing  anxiously  upon  his  pillow,  or 
restlessly  pacing  the  chamber  floor  until  day  dawn. 
Then,  from  over-excitement  and  loss  of  rest,  he  was 


124          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

•seriously  indisposed — so  much  so,  that  his  physician 
had  to  be  called  in  during  the  day.  He  found  him 
with  a  good  deal  of  fever,  and  deemed  it  necessary  to 
resort  to  depletion,  as  well  as  to  the  application  of 
ther  remedies  to  allay  the  over-action  of  his  vital 
system.  These  prostrated  him  at  once — so  much  so, 
that  he  was  unable  to  sit  up.  Before  night  he  was  so 
seriously  ill. that  the  physician  had  to  be  sent  for  again. 
The  fever  had  returned  with  great  violence,  and  the 
pressure  on  his  brain  was  so  greSt  that  he  had  become 
slightly  delirious. 

During  the  second  night,  this  active  stage  of  the 
disease  continued  ;  but  all  the  worst  symptoms  subsided 
towards  morning.  Daylight  found  him  sleeping  quietly, 
with  a  cool  moist  skin,  and  a  low,  regular  pulse. 
Towards  mid-day  he  awoke  ;  but  the  anxiety  that  came 
with  thought  brought  back  many  of  the  unfavorable 
symptoms,  and  he  was  worse  again  towards  evening. 
On  the  third  day  he  was  again  better,  but  so  weak  as  to 
be  unable  to  sit  up. 

How  greatly  did  old  Mr.  Lofton  miss  the  gentle 
girl,  who  had  become  almost  as  dear  to  him  as  a  child, 
during  this  brief  illness,  brought  on  by  her  strange 
absence.  No  hand  could  smooth  his  pillow  like  hers. 
No  presence  could  supply  her  place  by  his  side.  He 
was  corapanionless,  now  that  she  was  away ;  and  his 


JENNY    LAWSON.  125 

heart  reached  vainly  around  for  something  to  lean  upon 
for  support. 

On  the  fourth  day  he  was  better,  and  sat  up  a  little. 
But  his  anxiety  for  Jenny  was  increasing.  Where 
could  she  be  ?  He  read  her  brief  letter  over  and  over 
again. 

"May  not  return  for  weeks,"  he  said,  as  he  held 
the  letter  in  his  hand.  "  Where  can  she  have  gone  ? 
Foolish  child  !  Why  did  she  not  consult  with  me  ?  I 
would  have  advised  her  for  the  best." 

Late  on  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  Jenny,  in 
company  with  Mark,  the  latter  in  the  dress  of  a  seaman 
in  the  United  States  service,  passed  from  a  steamboat 
at  the  landing  near  Fairview,  and  took  their  way 
towards  the  mansion  of  Mr.  Lofton.  They  had  not 
proceeded  far,  before  the  young  man  began  to  linger, 
while  Jenny  showed  every  disposition  to  press  on 
rapidly.  At  length  Mark  stopped. 

"  Jenny,"  ,  said  he,  while  a  cloud  settled  on  his  face, 
u  you've  had  your  own  way  up  to  this  moment.     IV 
been  passive  in  your  hands.     But  I  can't  go  on  with 
you  any  further." 

"  Don't  say  that,"  returned  Jenny,  her  voice  almost 
imploring  in  its  tones.  And  in  the  earnestness  of  her 
desire  to  bring  Mark  back  to  his  grandfather,  she 
seized  one  of  his  hands,  and,  by  a  gentle  force,  drew 


126          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

him  a  few  paces  in  the  direction  they  had  been  going.  , 
But  he  resisted  that  force,  and  they  stood  still  again. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  go  back,  Jenny,"  said  Mark,  in 
a  subdued  voice :  "  I  have  some  pride  left,  much  as 
las  been  crushed  out  of  me  during  the  period  of  my 
absence,  and  this  rises  higher  and  higher  in  my  heart 
the  nearer  I  approach  my  grandfather.  How  can  I 
meet  him !" 

"  Only  come  into  his  presence,  Mark,"  urged  Jenny, 
speaking  tenderly  and  familiarly.  She  had  addressed 

him   as    Mr.    Clifford,    but    he    had   forbidden   that, 

•* 
saying — 

"  To  you  my  name  is  Mark — let  none  other  pass 
your  lips !" 

"  Only  come  into  his  presence.  You  need  not  speak 
to  him,  nor  look  towards  him.  This  is  all  I  ask." 

"But,  the  humiliation  of  going  back  after  my 
resentment  of  his  former  treatment,"  said  Mark.  "  I 
can  bear  anything  but  this  bending  of  my  pride — this 
humbling  of  myself*  to  others." 

"Don't  think  of  yourself,  Mark,"  replied  Jenny. 
"  Think  of  your  grandfather,  on  whom  your  absence* 
has  wrought  so  sad  a  change.  Think  of  what  he  must 
have  suffered  to  break  down  so  in  less  than  two  years, 
In  pity  to  him,  then,  come  back.  Be  guided  by  me, 


JENNY    LAWSON.  127 

Mark,  and  I  will  lead  you  right  Think  of  that 
strange  dream  !" 

At  this  appeal,  Mark  moved  quickly  forward  by  the 
side  of  the  beautiful  girl,  who  had  so  improved  in 
every  way — mind  and  body  havinV  developed  wonder- 
fully since  he  parted  with  her — that  he  was  filled  all 
the  while  by  wonder,  respect  and  admiration.  He 
moved  by  hej:  side  as^if  influenced  by  a  spell  that 
subdued  his  own  will. 

In  silence  they  walked  along,  side  by  side,  the 
pressure  of  thought  and  feeling  on  each  mind  being  so 
strong  as  to  take  away  the  desire  to  speak,  until  the  old 
mansion  house  of  Mr.  Lofton  appeared  in  view.  Here 
Mark  stopped  again  ;  but  the  tenderly  uttered  "  Come," 
and  the  tearful  glance  of  Jenny,  effectually  controlled 
the  promptings  of  an  unbroken  will.  Together,  in  a 
few  minutes  afterwards,  they  approached  the  house  and 
entered. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Lofton  ?"  asked  Jenny  of  a  servant 
who  met  them  in  the  great  hall. 

"  He's  been  very  ill,"  replied  the  servant. 

"  111 !"     Jenny  became  pale. 

"  Yes,  veiy  ill.   'But  he  is  better  now." 

"  Where  is  he  ?" 

"  In  his  own  chamber." 

For  a  moment  Jenny  hesitated  whether  to  go  up 


128          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

alone,  or  in  company  with  Mark.  She  would  hav-. 
preferred  going  alone ;  but  fearing  that,  if  she  parte< 
even  thus  briefly  from  Mark,  her  strong  influence  ovei 
him,  by  means  of  which  she  had  brought  him,  almos( 
as  a  struggling  prisoner,  thus  far,  would  be  weakened, 
and  he  tempted  to  turn  from  the  house,  she  resolved 
to  venture  upon  the  experiment  of  entering  Mr.  Lofton's 
sick  chamber,  in  company  with  his  grandson. 

"  Is  he  sitting  up  !"  she  asked  of  the  servant 

•"He's  been  silting  up  a  good  deal  to-day,  but  is 
lying  down  now." 

"  He's  much  better  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !" 

"  Come,"  said  Jenny,  turning  to  Mark,  and  moving 
towards  the  stairway.  Mark  followed  passively.  On 
entering  the  chamber  of  Mr.  Lofton,  they  found  him 
sleeping. 

Both  silently  approached,  and  looked  upon  his 
venerable  face,  composed  in  deep  slumber.  Teal's  came 
to  the  eyes  of  Mark  as  he  gazed  at  the  countenance  of 
his  grandfather,  and  his  heart  became  soft  as  the  heart 
of  a  child.  While  they  yet  stood  looking  at  him,  his 
lips  moved,  and  he  uttered  both  their  names.  Then  he 
seemed  disturbed,  and  moaned,  as  if  in  pain. 

"  Grandfather !"  said  Mark,  taking  the  old  man.' 
hand,  and  bending  over  him. 


JENNY    LAWSON.  129 

Quickly  his  eyes  opened.  For  a  few  moments  he 
gazed  earnestly  upon  Mark,  and  then  tightened  his 
hand  upon  that  of  the  young  man,  closed  his  eyes 
again,  and  murmured  in  a  voice  that  deeply  touched 
the  returning  wanderer — 

"  My  poor  boy  !  My  poor  boy  '  Why  did  you  do 
BO?  Why  did  you  break  my  heart?  But,  God  be 
thanked,  you  aro^back  again  !  God  be  thanked  !" 

"  Jenny !"  said  the  old  man,  quickly,  as  he  felt  her 
take  his  other  hand  and  press  it  to  her  lips.  "  And  it 
was  for  this  you  left  me  !  Dear  child,  I  forgive  you !" 

As  he  spoke,  he  drew  her  hand  over  towards  the  one 
that  grasped  that  of  Mark,  and  uniting  them  together, 
murmured — 

"  If  you  love  each  other,  it  is  all  right.  My  blessing 
shall  go  with  you." 

How  mild  and  delicious  was  the  thrill  that  ran 
through  each  of  the  hearts  of  his  auditors.  This  was 
more  than  they  expected.  Mark  tightly  grasped  the 
hand  that  was  placed  within  his  own,  and  that  hand 
gave  back  an  answering  pressure.  Thus  was  the  past 
reconciled  with  the  present ;  while  a  vista  was  opened 
toward  a  bright  future. 

Little  more  than  a  year  has  passed  since  this  joyful 
event  took  place.  Mark  Clifford,  with  the  entire 
approval  of  his  grandfather,  who  furnished  a  handsome 
6* 


130          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

capital  for  the  purpose,  entered,  during  the  time,  into 
the  mercantile  house  of  his  father  as  a  partner,  and  is 
now  actively  engaged  in  business,  well  sobered  by  his 
evere  experience.  He  has  taken  a  lovely  bride,  who  is 
-he  charm  of  all  circles  into  which  she  is  introduced ; 
and  her  name  is  Jenny.  But  few  who  meet  her  dream 
that  she  once  grew,  a  beautiful  wild  flower,  near  the 
banks  of  the  Hudson. 

Old  Mr.  Lofton  could  not  be  separated  from  Jenny  ; 
and,  as  he  could  not  separate  her  from  her  husband,  he 
has  removed  to  the  city,  where  he  has  an  elegant 
residence,  in  which  her  voice  is  the  music  and  her 
smiles  the  ever  present  sunshine. 


SHADOWS. 


A  HAPPY-HEARTED  child  was  Madeline  Henry,  foi 
the  glad  sunshine  ever  lay  upon  the  threshold  of  her 
early  home.  Her  father,  a  cheerful,  unselfish  man,  left 
the  world  and  its  business  cares  behind  him  when  he 
placed  his  hand  upon  the  door  of  entrance  to  his 
household  treasures.  Like  other  men,  lie  had  his 
anxieties,  his  hopes  and  losses,  his  disappointments  and 
troubles  ;  but  he  wisely  and  humanely  strove  to  banish 
these  from  his  thoughts,  when  he  entered  the  home- 
sanctuary,  lest  his  presence  should  bring  a  shadow 
instead  of  sunshine. 

Madeline  was  just  twenty  years  of  age,  when,  as  the 
wife  of  Edward  Leslie,  she  left  this  warm  down-covered 
nest,  and  was  borne  to  a  new  and  more  elegant  home. 
Mr.  Leslie  was  her  senior  by  eight  or  nine  years.  He 
began  his  business  life  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  as 
partner  in  a  well  established  mercantile  house,  and,  as 


132          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

he  was  able  to  place  ten  thousand  dollars  in  tha 
concern,  his  position,  in  the  matter  of  profits,  was  good 
from  the  beginning.  Yet,  for  all  this,  notwithstanding* 
more  than  one  loving-hearted  girl,  in  whose  eyes  he 
might  have  found  favor,  crossed  his  path,  he  resolutely 
turned  his  thoughts  away,  lest  the  fascination  should  be 
too  strong  for  him.  He  resolved  not  to  marry  until  he 
felt  able  to  maintain  a  certain  style  of  living. 

Thus  were  the  heart's  impulses  checked ;  thus  were 
the  first  tender  leaves  of  affection  frozen  in  the  cold 
breath  of  mere  calculation.  He  wronged  himself  in 
this ;  yet,  in  his  worldliness  and  ignorance,  did  he  feel 
proud  of  being  above,  what  he  called,  the  weaknesses 
of  other  men. 

It  was  but  natural  that  Mr.  Leslie  should  become,  in 
a  measure,  reserved  towards  others.  Should  assume  a 
statelier  step,  and  more  set  forms  of  speech.  Should 
repress,  more  and  more,  his  heart's  impulses. 

In  Leslie,  the  love  of  money  was  strong ;  yet  there 
was  in  his  character  a  firmly  laid  basis  of  integrity. 
Though  shrewd  in  his  dealings,  he  never  stooped  to  a 
system  of  overreaching.  He  was  not  long,  therefore,  in 
establishing  a  good  reputation  among  business  men. 
In  social  circles,  where  he  occasionally  appeared,  almost 
as  a  matter  of  course  he  became  an  object  of  interest. 

Observation,  as  it  regards  character,  is,  by  far,  too 


SHADOWS.  13c 

}uperficial.  With  most  persons,  merely  what  strike* 
the  eye  is  sufficient  ground  for  an  opinion ;  and  this 
opinion  is  freely  and  positively  expressed.  Thus,  a 
good  reputation  comes,  as  a  natural  consequence,  to  a 
man  who  lives  in  the  practice  of  most  of  the  apparent 
social  virtues,  while  he  may  possess  no  real  kindness  of 
heart,  may  be  selfish  to  an  extreme  degree. 

Thus  it  was  with  Mr.  Leslie.  He  was  generally 
regarded  as  a  model  of  a  man  ;  and  when  he,  at 
length,  approached  Madeline  Henry  as  a  lover,  the 
friends  of  the  young  lady  regarded  her  as  particularly 
fortunate. 

As  for  Madeline,  she  rather  shrunk,  at  first,  from  his 
advances.  There  was  a  coldness  in  his  sphere  that 
chilled  her ;  a  rigid  propriety  of  speech  and  action  that 
inspired  too  much  respect  and  deference.  Gradually, 
however,  love  for  the  maiden,  (if  by  such  a  term  it 
might  be  called)  fused  his  hard  exterior,  and  his 
manner  became  so  softened,  gentle  and  affectionate, 
hat  she  yielded  up  to  him  a  most  precious  treasure — 
whe  love  of  her  young  and  trusting  heart. 

Just  twenty  years  old,  as  we  have  said,  was  Madeline 
when  she  passed,  as  the  bride  of  Mr.  Leslie,  from  the 
warm  home-nest  in  which  she  had  reposed  so  happily, 
to  become  the  mistress  of  an  elegant  mansion.  Though 
in  age  a  woman,  she  was,  in  many  things,  but  a  child 


134          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

in  feelings.  Tenderly  cared  for  and  petted  by  hei 
father,  her  spirit  had  been,  in  a  measure,  sustained  by 
love  as  an  aliment. 

One  like  Madeline  is  not  fit  to  be  the  wife  of  such  a 
man  as  Edward  Leslie.  For  him,  a  cold,  calculating 
•woman  of  the  world  were  a  better  companion.  One 
who  has  her  own  selfish  ends  to  gain ;  and  who  can 
find,  in  fashion,  gaiety,  or  personal  indulgence,  full 
compensation  for  a  husband's  love. 

Madeline  was  scarcely  the  bride  of  a  week,  ere 
shadows  began  to  fall  upon  her  heart ;  and  the  form 
that  interposed  itself  between  her  and  the  sunlight, 
was  the  form  of  her  husband.  As  a  daughter,  love 
had  ever  gone  forth  in  lavish  expression.  This  had 
been  encouraged  by  all  the  associations  of  home.  But,- 
from  the  beginning  of  her  wedded  lifft,  she  felt  tho 
manner  of  her  husband  like  the  weight  of  a  hand  on 
her  bosom,  repressing  her  heart's  outgushing  impulses. 

It  was  on  the  fifth  evening  of  their  marriage,  about 
the  early  twilight  hour,  and  Madeline,  alone,  almost  for 
the  first  time  since  morning,  sat  awaiting  the  return  of 
her  husband.  Full  of  pleasant  thoughts  was  her 
mind,  and  warm  with  love  her  heart.  A  few  hours  of 
separation  from  Edward  had  made  her  impatient  to 
meet  him  again.  When,  at  length,  she  heard  him 


SHADOWS.  185 

enter,  she  sprang  to  meet  him,  and,  with  an  exclamation 
of  delight,  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

There  was  a  cold  dignity  in  the  way  this  act  was 
received  by  Edward  Leslie,  that  chilled  the  feelings  of 
his  wife.  Quickly  disengaging  her  arras,  she  assumed 
a  more  guarded  exterior ;  yet,  trying  all  the  while,  to 
be  cheerful  in  manner.  We  say  "trying;"  for  a 
shadow  had  falletv.  on  her  young  heart — and,  to  seem 
cheerful  was  from  an  effort.  They  sat  down,  side  by 
side,  in  the  pensive  twilight  close  to  the  windows, 
through  which  came  fragrant  airs ;  and  Madeline  laid 
her  hand  upon  that  of  her  husband.  Checked  in  the 
first  gush  of  feelings,  she  now  remained  silent,  yet  with 
her  yearning  spirit  intently  listening  for  words  of 
tenderness  and  endearment. 

"  I  have  been  greatly  vexed  to-day." 

These  were  the  very  words  he  uttered.  How  chilly 
they  fell  upon  the  ears  of  his  expectant  wife. 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  voice  of 
concern. 

"  Oh,  nothing  in  reality  more  than  usual.  Men  ii 
business  are  exposed  to  a  thousand  annoyances.  If  all 
the  world  were  honest,  trade  would  be  pleasant  enough. 
But  you  have  to  watch  eveiy  one  you  deal  with  as 
closely  as  if  he  were  a  rogue.  A  man,  whom  I  haa 
confided  in  and  befriended,  tried  to  overreach  me  to- 


136          HEART    HISTORIES    AND   LIFE   PICTURES. 

day,  and  it  has  hurt  me  a  good  deal.  I  couldn't  have 
believed  it  of  him." 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  either  side  for  several 
minutes.  Leslie,  absorbed  in  thoughts  of  business,  so 
far  forgot  the  presence  of  his  wife,  as  to  withdraw  the 
hand  upon  which  her's  was  laid.  How  palpable  to  her 
was  the  coldness  of  his  heart !  She  felt  it  as  an 
atmosphere  around  him. 

After  tea,  Leslie  remarked,  as  he  arose  from  the 
table,  that  he  wished  to  see  a  friend  on  some  matter  of 
business  ;  but  would  be  home  early.  Not  even  a  kiss 
did  he  leave  with  Madeline  to  cheer  her  during  his 
absence.  His  selfish  dignity  could  not  stoop  to  such 
childishness. 

The  young  bride  passed  the  evening  with  no 
companionship  but  her  tears.  When  Leslie  came 
home,  and  looked  upon  her  sober  face,  he  was  not 
struck  with  its  aspect  as  being  unusual.  It  did  not 
enter  his  imagination  that  she  could  be  otherwise  than 
happy.  Was  she  not  his  wife  ?  And  had  she  not, 
around  her,  every  thing  to  make  the  heart  satisfied  ? 
He  verily  believed  that  she  had.  He  spoke  to  her 
kindly,  yet,  as  she  felt,  indifferently,  while  her  heart  was 
pining  for  words  of  warm  affection. 

This  was  the  first  shadow  that  fell,  darkly,  across  the 
young  rife's  fath.  For  hours  after  her  husband's 


SHADOWS.  137 

senses  were  locked  in  slumber,  sho  lay  wakeful  and 
weeping.  He  understood  not,  if  he  remarked  the  fact, 
why  her  cheeks  had  less  color  and  her  eyes  less 
brightness  on  the  morning  that  succeeded  to  this,  on 
Madeline's  part,  never  forgotten  evening. 

We  need  not  present  a  scene  from  the  sixth,  the 
seventh,  or  even  the  twentieth  day  of  Madeline's 
married  life.  AJ1  moved  on  with  a  kind  of  even  tenor. 
Order— we  might  almost  say,  mercantile  order — reigned 
throughout  the  household.  And  yet,  shadows  were 
falling  more  and  more  heavily  over  the  young  wife's 
feelings.  To  be  loved,  was  an  element  of  her  existence 
— to  be  loved  with  expression.  But,  expressive  fond- 
ness was  not  one  of  the  cold,  dignified  Mr.  Leslie's 
weaknesses.  lie  loved  Madeline — as  much  as  he  was 
capable  of  loving  anything  out  of  himself.  And  he 
had  given  her  the  highest  possible  evidence  of  this  love, 
by  making  her  his  wife — What  more  could  she  ask? 
It  never  occurred  to  his  unsentimental  thought,  that 
words  and  acts  of  endearment  were  absolutely  essential 
to  her  happiness.  That  her  world  of  interest  was  a 
world  of  affections,  and  that  without  his  companionship 
in  this  world,  her  heart  would  feel  an  aching  void. 

Who  will  wonder  that,  as  weeks  and  months  went 
by,  shadows  were  more  apparent  on  the  sunny  face  of 
Madeline  ?  Yet,  such  shadows,  when  they  becam« 


138          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

visible  to  casual  eyes,  did  excite  wonder.  What 
was  there  to  break  the  play  of  sunshine  on  her  counte- 
nance? 

"  The  more  some  people  have,  the  more  dissatisfied 
they  are,"  remarked  one  superficial  observer  to  another, 
in  reply  to  some  communication  touching  Mrs.  Leslie's 
want  of  spirits. 

"  Yes,"  was  answered.  '*  Nothing  but  real  trouble 
ever  brings  such  persons  to  their  senses." 

Ah  !  Is  not  heart-trouble  the  most  real  of  all  with 
which  we  are  visited  ?  There  comes  to  it,  so  rarely,  a 
balm  of  healing.  To  those  external  evils  which  merely 
affect  the  personal  comfort,  the  mind  quickly  accommo- 
dates itself.  We  may  find  happiness  in  either  pros- 
perity or  adversity.  But,  what  true  happiness  is  there 
for  a  loving  heart,  if,  from  the  only  source  of  reciproca- 
tion, there  is  but  an  imperfect  response  ?  A  strong 
mind  may  accommodate  itself,  in  the  exercise  of  a  firm 
religious  philosophy,  to  even  these  circumstances,  and 
like  the  wisely  discriminating  bee,  extract  honey  from 
even  the  most  unpromising  flower.  But,  it  is  hard — 
nay,  almost  impossible — for  one  like  Madeline,  reared 
as  she  was  in  so  warm  an  atmosphere  of  love,  to  fall 
back  upon  and  find  a  sustaining  power,  in  such  a 
philosophy.  Her  spirit  first  must  droop.  There  must 
be  a  passing  through  the  fire,  with  painful  purification. 


SHADOWS.  139 

Alas !  How  many  perish  in  the  ordeal ! — How  many 
gentle,  loving  ones,  unequally  mated,  die,  daily,  around 
us  ;  moving  on  to  the  grave,  so  far  as  the  world  knowa, 
by  the  way  of  some  fatal  bodily  ailment ;  yet,  in  truth, 
faihng  by  a  heart-sickness  that  has  dried  up  the 
fountains  of  life. 

And  so  it  was  with  the  wife  of  Edward  Leslie. 
Greatly  her  husband  wondered  at  the  shadows  which 
fell,  more  and  more  heavily,  on  Madeline — wondered  as 
.  time  wore  on,  at  the  paleness  of  her  cheeks — the  sad- 
ness which,  ofien,  she  could  not  repress  when  he  was 
by ;  the  variableness  of  her  spirits — all  tending  to 
destroy  the  balance  of  her  nervous  system,  and,  finally, 
ending  in  confirmed  ill-health,  that  demanded,  impe- 
riously, the  diversion  of  his  thoughts  from  business  and 
worldly  schemes  to  the  means  of  piolonging  her  life. 

Alas  !  What  a  sad  picture  to  look  upon,  would  it 
be,  were  we  to  sketch,  even  in  outline,  the  passing 
events  of  the  ten  years  that  preceded  this  conviction  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  Leslie.  To  Madeline,  his  cold,  hard, 
impatient,  and,  too  frequently,  cruel  re-actions  upon 
what  he  thought  her  unreasonable,  captious,  dissatisfied 
states  of  mind,  having  no  ground  but  in  her  imagina- 
tion, were  heavy  heart-strokes — or,  as  a  discordant 
hand  dashed  among  her  life-chords,  putting  them 
forever  out  of  t'me.  Oh  !  The  wretchedness,  struggling 


140          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

with  patience  and  concealment,  of  those  weary  years, 
The  days  and  days,  during  which  her  husband  main- 
tained towards  her  a  moody  silence,  that  it  seemed 
would  kill  her.  And  yet,  so  far  as  the  world  went,  Mr. 
Leslie  was  among  the  best  of  husbands.  How  little 
does  the  world,  so  called,  look  beneath  the  surface  of 
things ! 

With  the  weakness  of  failing  health,  came,  to  Made- 
line, the  loss  of  mental  energy.  She  had  less  and  less 
self-control.  A  brooding  melancholy  settled  upon  her 
feelings ;  and  she  often  spent  days  in  her  chamber, 
refusing  to  see  any  one  except  members  of  her  own 
family,  and  weeping  if  she  were  spoken  to. 

"  You  will  die,  Madeline.  You  will  kill  yourself !" 
said  her  husband,  repeating,  one  day,  the  form  of 
speech  so  often  used  when  he  found  his  wife  in  these 
states  of  abandonment.  He  spoke  with  more  than  his 
usual  tenderness,  for,  to  his  unimaginative  mind  had 
come  a  quickly  passing,  but  vivid  realization,  of  what  he 
would  lose  if  she  were  taken  from  him. 

"  The  loss  will  scarcely  be  felt,"  was  her  murmured 
answer. 

"  Your  children  will,  at  least,  feel  it,"  said  Mr. 
Leslie,  in  a  more  captious  and  meaning  tone  than,  upon 
reflection,  he  would  have  used.  He  felt  her  words  as 
expressing  indifference  for  himself,  and  his  quick  retort 


SHADOWS.  141 

involved,  palpably,  the  same  impression  in  regard  to 
his  wife. 

Madeline  answered  not  farther,  but  her  husband'0 
words  were  not  forgotten — "  My  children  will  feel  my 
loss."  This  thought  became  so  present  to  her  mind, 
that  none  other  could,  for  a  space,  come  into  manifest 
perception.  The  mother's  heart  began  quickening  into 
life  a  sense  of  the  mother's  duty.  Thus  it  was,  when 
her  oldest  child — named  for  herself,  and  with  as  loving 
and  dependent  a  nature — opened  the  chamber  door, 
and  coming  up  to  her  father,  made  some  request  that 
he  did  not  approve.  To  the  mother's  mind,  her  desire 
was  one  that  ought  to  have  been  granted ;  and,  she 
felt,  in  an  instant,  that  the  manner,  as  well  as  the  fact 
of  the  father's  denial,  were  both  unkind,  and  that 
Madeline's  heart  would  be  almost  broken.  She  did 
not  err  in  this.  The  child  went  sobbing  from  the 
room. 

How  distinctly  came  before  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Leslie 
a  picture  of  the  past.  She  was,  for  a  time,  back  in  he 
father's  house ;  and  she  felt,  for  a  time,  the  ever 
present,  considerate,  loving  kindness  of  one  who  had 
made  all  sunshine  in  that  early  home.  Slowly  came 
back  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Leslie  to  the  present,  and  she 
said  to  herself,  not  passively,  like  one  borne  on  the 
current  of  a  down-rushing  stream,  but  resolutely,  as 


142          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

one  with  a  purpose  to  struggle — to  suffer,  and  yet  be 
strong — 

"  Yes ;  my  children  will  feel  my  loss.  I  could  pass 
away  and  be  at  rest.  I  could  lie  me  down  and  sleep 
weetly  in  the  grave.  But,  is  all  my  work  done  ? 
Can  I  leave  these  little  ones  to  his  tender  mer — " 

She  checked  herself  in  the  mental  utterance  of  this 
sentiment,  which  referred  to  her  husband.  But,  the 
feeling  was  in  her  heart ;  and  it  inspired  her  with  a  new 
purpose.  Her  thought,  turned  from  herself,  and  fixed, 
with  a  yearning  love  upon  her  children,  gave  to  the 
blood  a  quicker  motion  through  the  veins,  and  to  her 
mind  a  new  activity.  She  could  no  longer  remain 
passive,  as  she  had  been  for  hours,  brooding  over  her 
own  unhappy  state,  but  arose  and  left  her  chamber. 
In  another  room  she  found  her  unhappy  child,  who 
had  gone  off  to  brood  alone  over  her  disappointment, 
and  to  weep  where  none  could  see  her. 

"Madeline,  dear!"  said  the  mother,  in. a  loving, 
sympathetic  voice. 

Instantly  the  child  flung  herself  into  her  arms,  and 
Jaid  her  face,  sobbing,  upon  her  bosom. 

Gently,  yet  wisely — for  there  came,  in  that  moment, 
to  Mrs.  Leslie,  a  clear  perception  of  all  her  duty — did 
the  mother  seek  to  soften  Madeline's  disappointment, 
and  to  inspire  her  with  fortitude  to  bear.  Beyond  her 


SHADOWS. 


own  expectation  came  success  in  this  effort  The 
reason  she  invented  or  imagined,  for  the  father's 
refusal,  satisfied  the  child  ;  and  soon  the  clouded  bro« 
was  lit  up  by  the  heart's  sunshine. 

From  that  hour,  Mrs.  Leslie  was  changed.  From 
that  hour,  a  new  purpose  filled  her  heart.  She  could 
not  leave  her  children,  nor  could  she  take  them  with 
her  if  she  passed  away  ;  and  so,  she  resolved  to  live  for 
them,—  to  forget  her  own  suffering,  in  the  tenderness 
of  maternal  care.  The  mother  had  risen  superior  to 
the  unhappy,  unappreciated  wife. 

All  marked  the  change  ;  yet  in  none  did  it  awaken 
more  surprise  than  in  Mr.  Leslie.  He  never  fully 
understood  its  meaning  ;  and,  no  wonder,  for  he  had 
never  understood  her  from  the  beginning.  He  was  too 
cold  and  selfish  to  be  able  fully  to  appreciate  her 
character  or  relation  to  him  as  a  wife. 

Yet,  for  all  this  change—  though  the  long  drooping 
form  of  Mrs.  Leslie  regained  something  of  its  erect- 
ness,  and  her  exhausted  system  a  degree  of  tension— 
the  shadow  passed  not  from  her  heart  or  brow  ;  nor 
did  her  cheeks  grow  warm  again  with  the  glow  of 
health.  The  delight  of  her  life  had  failed  ;  and  now, 
she  lived  only  for  the  children  whom  God  had  given 
her. 

A  man  of  Mr.  Leslie's  stamp  of  character  too  rarely 


144          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

grows  wiser  in  the  true  sense.  Himself  the  centre  of 
his  world,  it  is  but  seldom  that  he  is  able  to  think 
enough  out  of  himself  to  scan  the  effect  of  his  daily 
actions  upon  others.  If  collisions  take  place,  he  thinks 
only  of  the  pain  he  feels,  not  of  the  pain  he  gives. 
He  is  ever  censuring ;  but  rarely  takes  blame.  During 
the  earlier  portions  of  his  married  life,  Mr.  Leslie's 
mind  had  chafed  a  good  deal  at  what  seemed  to  him 
Madeline's  unreasonable  and  unwomanly  conduct ;  the 
spreness  of  this  was  felt  even  after  the  change  in  her 
exterior  that  we  have  noticed,  and  he  often  indulged  in 
the  habit  of  mentally  writing  bitter  things  against  her. 
He  had  well  nigh  broken  her  heart ;  and  was  yet 
impatient  because  she  gave  signs  indicative  of  pain. 

And  so,  as  years  wore  on,  the  distance  grew  wider 
instead  of  becoming  less  and  less.  The  husband  had 
many  things  to  draw  him  forth  into  the  busy  world, 
where  he  established  various  interests,  and  sought 
pleasure  in  their  pursuits,  while  the  wife,  seldom  seen 
abroad,  buried  herself  at  home,  and  gave  her  very  life 
for  her  children. 

But,  even  maternal  love  could  not  feed  for  very 
many  years  the  flame  of  her  life.  The  oil-  was  too 
nearly  exhausted  when  that  new  supply  came.  For  a 
time,  the  light  burned  clearly ;  then  it  began  to  fail, 


SHADOWS.  145 

and  ere  the  mother's  tasks  were  half  done,  it  went  out 
in  darkness. 

How  heavy  the  shadows  which  then  fell  upon  the 
household  and  upon  the  heart  of  Edward  Leslie ! 
As  he  stood,  alone,  in  the  chamber  of  death,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  pale,  wasted  countenance,  no  more 
to  quicken  with  life,  and  felt  on  his  neck  the  clinging 
arms  that  were  thrown  around  it  a  few  moments  before 
the  last  sigh  of  mortality  was  breathed ;  and  still 
heard  the  eager,  "  Kiss  me,  Edward,  once,  before  I 
die  !" — a  new  light  broke  upon  him, — and  he  was 
suddenly  stung  by  sharp  and  self-reproaching  thoughts. 
Had  he  not  killed  her,  and,  by  the  slowest  and  most 
agonizing  process  by  which  murder  can  be  committed  ? 
There  was  in  his  mind  a  starlling  perception  that  such 
was  the  awful  crime  of  which  he  had  been  guilty. 

Yes,  there  were  shadows  on  the  heart  of  Edward 
Leslie  ;  shadows  that  never  entirely  passed  away. 


THE  THANKLESS  OFFICE. 


**  AN  object  of  real  charity,"  said  Andrew  Lyon  to 
bis  wife,  as  a  poor  woman  withdrew  from  the  room  in 
which  they  were  seated. 

"  If  ever  there  was  a  worthy  object,  she  is  one,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Lyon.  "  A  widow,  with  health  so  feeble 
that  even  ordinary  exertion  is  too  much  for  her ;  yet 
obliged  to  support,  with  the  labor  of  her  own  hands, 
not  only  herself,  but  three  young  children.  I  do  not 
•wonder  that  she  is  behind  with  her  rent." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Mr.  Lyon  in  a  voice  of  sympathy. 
"  How  much  did  she  say  was  due  to  her  landlord  ?" 

u  Ten  dollars." 

"  She  will  not  be  able  to  pay  it." 

"  I  fear  not.  How  can  she  ?  I  give  her  .ill  my 
extra  sewing,  and  have  obtained  work  for 'her  from 
several  ladies  ;  but,  with  her  best  efforts  she  can  barely 
obtain  food  and  decent  clothing  for  herself  and  babes." 

"  Does  it  not  seem  hard,"  remarked  Mr.  Lyon,  "  that 


THE    THANKLESS    OFFICK.  147 

one  like  Mrs.  Arnold,  who  is  so  earnest  in  her  efforts  tc 
take  care  of  herself  and  family,  should  not  receive  a 
helping  hand  from  some  one  of  the  many  who  could 
help  her  without  feeling  the  effort  ?  If  I  didn't  find  it 
so  hard  to  make  both  ends  meet,  I  would  pay  off  her 
arrears  of  rent  for  her,  and  feel  happy  iu  so  doing." 

"  Ah  !"  exclaimed  the  kind-hearted  wife,  "  how  much 
I  wish  that  we  were  able  to  do  this.  But  we  are  not" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  we  can  do,"  said  Mr.  Lyon,  in  a 
cheerful  voice — "  or,  rather  what  /  can  do.  It  will  be 
a  very  light  matter  for,  say  ten  persons,  to  give  a  dollar 
a-piece,  in  order  to  relieve  Mrs.  Arnold  from  her  present 
trouble.  There  are  plenty  who  would  cheerfully  con- 
tribute for  this  good  purpose  ;  all  that  is  wanted  is 
some  one  to  take  upon  himself  the  business  of  making 
the  collections.  That  task  shall  be  mine." 

"  How  glad,  James,  to  hear  you  say  so,"  smilingly 
replied  Mrs.  Lyon.  "  Oh  !  what  a  relief  it  will  be  to 
poor  Mrs.  Arnold.  It  will  make  her  heart  as  light  as 
a  feather.  That  rent  has  troubled  her  sadly.  Old 
Links,  her  landlord,  has  been  worrying  her  about  it  a 
good  deal,  and,  only  a  week  ago,  threatened  to  put  her 
things  in  the  street  if  she  didn't  pay  up." 

"  I  should  have  thought  of  this  beforo,"  remarked 
Andrew  Lyon.  "  There  are  hundreds  of  people  who 
are  willirg  enough  to  give  if  they  were  only  certain  in 


148          HEART    HISTORIES     AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

regard  to  the  object.  Hene  is  one  worthy  enough  in 
every  way.  Be  it  my  business  to  present  her  claims  to 
benevolent  consideration.  Let  me  see.  To  whom  shall 
I  go  1  There  are  Jones,  and  Green,  and  Tompkins.  I 
can  get  a  dollar  from  each  of  them.  That  will  be 
.hree  dollars — and  one  from  myself,  will  make  four. 
Who  else  is  there  ?  Oh  !  Malcolm  !  I'm  sure  of  a 
dollar  from  him  ;  and,  also,  from  Smith,  Todd,  and 
Perry." 

Confident  in  the  success  of  his  benevolent  scheme, 
Mr.  Lyon  started  forth,  early  on  the  very  next  day,  for 
the  purpose  of  obtaining,  by  subscription,  the  poor 
widow's  rent.  The  first  person  he  called  on  was  Mal- 
colm. 

"  Ah,  friend  Lyon,"  said  Malcolm,  smiling  blandly. 
*  Good  morning  !  What  can  I  do  for  you  to-day  ?" 

"  Nothing  for  me,  but  something  for  a  poor  widow, 
who  is  behind  with  her  rent,"  replied  Andrew  Lyon. 
"  I  want  just  one  dollar  from  you,  and  as  much  more 
from  some  eight  or  nine  as  benevolent  as  yourself." 

At  the  words  "poor  widow,"  the  countenance  of 
Malcolm  fell,  and  when  his  visiter  ceased,  he  replied  in 
a  changed  and  husky  voice,  clearing  his  throat  two  or 
three  times  as  he  spoke, 

*'  Are  you  sure  she  is  deserving,  Mr.  Lyon  ?"  The 
man's  manner  had  become  exceedingly  grave. 


THE   THANKLESS    OFFICE.  149 

"  None  more  so,"  was  the  prompt  answer.    "  She  is 
in  poor  health,  and  has  three  children  to  support  with 
the  product  of  her  needle.     If  any  one  needs  assisl 
auce  it  is  Mrs.  Arnold." 

"  Oh  !  ah !     The  widow  of  Jacob  Arnold  1n 

"  The  same,"  replied  Andrew  Lyon. 

Malcolm's  face  did  not  brighten  with  a  feeling  of 
heart-warm  benevolence.  But,  he  turned  slowly  away, 
and  opening  his  money-drawer,  very  slowly,  toyed  with 
his  fingers  amid  its  contents.  At  length  he  took  there- 
from a  dollar  bill,  and  said,  as  he  presented  it  to  Lyon, 
— sighing  involuntarily  as  he  did  so — 

"  I  suppose  I  must  do  my  part.  But,  we  are  called 
upon  so  often." 

The  ardor  of  Andrew  Lyon's  benevolent  feelings 
suddenly  cooled  at  this  unexpected  reception.  He  had 
entered  upon  his  work  under  the  glow  of  a  pure  enthu- 
siasm ;  anticipating  a  hearty  response  the  moment. his 
errand  was  made  known. 

"  I  thank  you  in  the  widow's  name,"  said  he,  as  he 
xxik  the  dollar.  When  he  turned  from  Mr.  Malcolm's 
store,  it  was  with  a  pressure  on  his  feelings,  as  if  he 
had  asked  the  coldly-given  favor  for  himself. 

It  was  not  without  an  effort  that  Lyon  compelled 
himself  to  call  upon  Mr.  Green,  considered  the  "  next 
best  man"  on  his  list.  But  he  entered  his  place  of 


150          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

business  with  far  less  confidence  than  he  had  felt  when 
calling  upon  Malcolm.  His  story  told,  Green  without 
a  word  or  smile,  drew  two  half  dollars  from  his  pocket, 
and  presented  them. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Lyon. 

"  Welcome,"  returned  Green. 

Oppressed  with  a  feeling  of  embarrassment,  Lyon 
stood  for  a  few  moments.     Then  bowing,  he  said — 

"Good  morning." 

"  Good  morning,"  was  coldly  and  formally  responded. 

And  thus  the  alms-seeker  and  alms-giver  parted. 
. "  Better  be  at  his  shop,  attending  to  his  work,"  mut- 
tered Green  to  himself,  as  his  visitor  retired.  "  Men 
ain't  very  apt  to  get  along  too  well  in  the  world  who 
spend  their  time  in  begging  for  every  object  of  charity 
that  happens  to  turn  up.  And  there  are  plenty  of 
such,  dear  knows.  He's  got  a  dollar  out  of  me  ;  may 
it  do  him,  or  the  poor  widow  he  talked  so  glibly  about, 
much  good." 

Cold  water  had  been  poured  upon  the  feelings  of 
Andrew  Lyon.  He  had  raised  two  dollars  for  the  poo. 
•widow,  but,  at  what  a  sacrifice  for  one  so  sensitive  as 
himself.  Instead  of  keeping  on  in  his  work  of  benev- 
olence, he  went  to  his  shop,  and  entered  upon  the  day's 
employment.  How  disappointed  he  felt ; — and  thii 
disappointment  was  mingled  with  a  certain  sense 


THE   THANKLESS    OFFICE.  JfiJ 

of  humiliation,  as  if  he  had  been  asking  alms  for  him 
self! 

"  Catch  me  at  this  work  again !"  he  said,  half  aloud, 
as  his  thoughts  dwelt  upon  what  had  so  recently 
occurred.  "But  this  is  not  right,"  he  added,  quickly. 
« It  is  a  weakness  in  me  to  feel  so.  Poor  Mrs.  Arnold 
must  be  relieved ;  and  it  is  my  duty  to  see  that  she 
gets  relief.  I  had  no  thought  of  a  reception  like  this. 
People  can  talk  of  benevolence  ;  but  putting  the  hand 
in  the  pocket  is  another  affair  altogether.  I  never 
dreamed  that  such  men  as  Malcolm  and  Green  could  be 
insensible  to  an  appeal  like  the  one  I  made." 

"I've  got  two  dollars  towards  paying  Mrs.  Arnold's 
rent,"  he  said  to  himself,  in  a  more  cheerful  tone,  some- 
time afterwards  ;  "  and  it  will  go  hard  if  I  don't  raise 
the  whole  amount  for  her.  All  are  not  like  Green  and 
Malcolm.  Jones  is  a  kind-hearted  man,  and  will 
instantly  respond  to  the  call  of  humanity.  I'll  go  and 
see  him." 

So,  off  Andrew  Lyon  started  to  see  this  individual. 

Tve  come  begging,  Mr.  Jones,"  said  he,  on  meeting 
him.  And  he  spoke  in  a  frank,  pleasanfc  manner. 

"  Then  you've  come  to  the  wrong  shop ;  that's  all  I 
have  to  say,"  was  the  blunt  answer. 

« T>»'t  say  that,  Mr.  Jones.     Hear  my  story,  first." 


152          HEART    HISTORIES    ANE    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  I  do  say  it,  and  I'm  in  earnest,"  returned  Jonei 
u  I  feel  as  poor  as  Job's  turkey,  to-day." 

"  I  only  want  a  dollar  to  help  a  poor  widow  pay  her 
rent,"  said  Lyon. 

"  Oh,  hang  all  the  poor  widows !  If  that's  your 
game,  you'll  get  nothing  here.  I've  got  my  hands  full 
to  pay  my  own  rent.  A  nice  time  I'd  have  in  handing 
out  a  dollar  to  every  poor  widow  in  town  to  help  pay 
her  rent !  No,  no,  my  friend,  you  can't  get  anything 
here." 

"Just  as  you  feel  about  it,"  said  Andrew  Lyon. 
**  There's  no  compulsion  in  the  matter." 

"  No,  I  presume  not,"  was  rather  coldly  replied. 

Lyon  returned  to  his  shop,  still  more  disheartened 
than  before.  He  had  undertaken  a  thankless  office. 

Nearly  two  hours  elapsed  before  his  resolution  to  per- 
severe in  the  good  work  he  had  begun  came  back  with 
sufficient  force  to  prompt  to  another  effort.  Then  he 
dropped  in  upon  his  neighbor  Tompkins,  to  whom  he 
made  known  his  errand. 

"  Why,  yes,  I  suppose  I  must  do  something  in  a  case 
like  this,"  said  Tompkins,  with  the  tone  and  air  of  a 
man  who  was  cornered.  "  But,  there  are  so  many  calls 
for  charity,  that  we  are  naturally  enough  led. to  hold  on 
pretty  tightly  to  our  purse  strings.  Poor  woman !  I 
feel  sorry  for  her.  How  much  do  you  want  i" 


THE    THANKLESS    OFFICE.  153 

"  I  am  trying  to  get  ten  persons,  including  myself,  tc 
give  a  dollar  each."  '-v:. 

"  Well,  here's  my  dollar."  And  Tompkins  forced  * 
smile  to  his  face  as  he  handed  over  his  contribution — • 
but  the  smile  did  not  conceal  an  expression  which  said 
very  plainly — 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  trouble  me  again  in  this  way." 

9 

"  You  may*  be  sure  I  will  not,"  muttered  Lyon,  as  he 
went  away.  He  fully  understood  the  meaning  of  the 
expression. 

Only  one  more  application  did  the  kind-hearted  man 
make.  It  was  successful ;  but,  there  was  something  in 
the  manner  of  the  individual  who  gave  his  dollar,  that 
Lyon  felt  as  a  rebuke. 

"  And  so  poor  Mrs.  Arnold  did  not  get  the  whole  of 
her  arrears  of  rent  paid  off,"  says  some  one  who  has  felt 
an  interest  in  her  favor. 

Oh,  yes  she  did.  Mr.  Lyon  begged  five  dollars,  and 
added  five  more  from  his  own  slender  purse.  But,  he 
cannot  be  induced  again  to  undertake  the  thankless 
^Sce  of  seeking  relief  from  the  benevolent  for  a  fellow 
creature  in  need.  He  has  learned  that  a  great  many 
who  refuse  alms  on  the  plea  that  the  object  presented 
is  not  worthy,  are  but  little  more  inclined  to  charitable 
deeds,  when  on  this  point  there  is  no  question. 

How  many  who  *cad  this  can  sympathise  with 
7* 


154         HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

Andrew  Lyon.  Few  men  who  have  hearts  to  feel  fol 
others  but  have  been  impelled,  at  some  time  in  their 
lives,  to  seek  aid  for  a  fellow-creature  in  need.  That 
their  office  was  a  thankless  one,  they  have  too  soon 
become  aware.  Even  those  who  responded  to  their 
call  most  liberally,  in  too  many  instances  gave  in  a  way 
that  left  an  unpleasant  impression  behind.  How 
quickly  has  the  first  glow  of  generous  feeling,  that 
sought  to  extend  itself  to  others,  that  they  might  share 
the  pleasure  of  humanity,  been  chilled ;  and,  instead 
of  finding  the  task  an  easy  one,  it  has  proved  to  be 
hard,  and,  too  often,  humiliating !  Alas,  that  this 
should  be !  That  men  should  shut  their  hearts  so 
instinctively  at  the  voice  of  charity. 

We  have  not  written  this  to  discourage  active  efforts 
in  the  benevolent ;  but  to  hold  up  a  mirror  in  which 
another  class  may  see  themselves.  At  best,  the  office 
of  him  who  seeks  of  his  fellow-men  aid  for  the  suffer- 
ing and  indigent,  is  an  unpleasant  one.  It  is  all  sacri- 
fice on  his  part,  and  the  least  that  can  be  done  is  to 
honor  his  disinterested  regard  for  others  in  distress,  and 
treat  him  with  delicacy  and  consideration. 


GOING  TO  THE  SPRINGS; 

OR,    VULGAR    PEOPLE. 


"  I  SUPPOSE  you  will  all  be  off  to  Saratoga,  in  a  week 
or  two,"  said  Uncle  Joseph  Garland  to  his  three  nieces, 
as  he  sat  chatting  with  them  and  their  mother,  one  hot 
day,  about  the  first  of  July. 

"  We're  not  going  to  Saratoga  this  year,"  replied 
Emily,  the  eldest,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"  Indeed  1  And  why  not,  Emily  !" 

u  Everybody  goes  to  Saratoga,  now." 

"  Who  do  you  mean  by  everybody,  Emily  F* 

"  Why,  I  mean  merchants,  shop-keepers,  and  trades 
men,  with  their  wives  and  daughters,  all  mixed  up 
together,  into  a  kind  of  hodge-podge.  It  used  to  be  a 
fashionable  place  of  resort — but  people  that  think  any 
thing  of  themselves,  don't  go  there  now." 

M  Bless  me,  child  !"  ejaculated  old  Uncle  Joseph,  in 


I 

156          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

surprise.  "  This  is  all  new1  to  me.  But  you  were  there 
last  year." 

"  I  know.  And  that  cured  us  all.  There  was  not  a 
day  in  which  we  were  not  crowded  down  to  the  table 
among  the  most  vulgar  kind  of  people." 

"  How,  vulgar,  Emily  ?" 

"  Why,  there  was  Mr.  Jones,  the  watchmaker,  with 
his  wife  and  two  daughters.  I  need  not  explain  what 
I  mean  by  vulgar,  when  I  give  you  that  information." 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  any  clearer  idea  of  what 
you  mean,  Emily." 

"  You  talk  strangely,  uncle  !  You  do  not  suppose 
that  we  are  going  to  associate  with  the  Joneses  ?" 

"  I  did  not  say  that  I  did.  Still,  I  am  in  the  dark 
as  to  what  you  mean  by  the  most  vulgar  kind  of 
people." 

"  Why,  common  people,  brother,"  said  Mrs.  Ludlow, 
coming  up  to  the  aid  of  her  daughter.  "  Mr.  Jones  is 
only  a  watchmaker,  and  therefore  has  no  business  to 
push  himself  and  family  into  the  company  of  genteel 
people." 

"  Saratoga  is  a  place  of  public  resort,"  was  the  quiet 
reply. 

"  Well,  genteel  people  will  have  to  stay  away,  then, 
that's  all.  I,  at  least,  for  one,  am  not  going  to  be 
annoyed  as  I  have  been  for  the  last  two  or  three  seasons  • 


GOING    TO    THE    SPRINGS.  157 

at  Saratoga,  by  being  thrown  amongst  all  sorts  of 
people." 

"  They  never  troubled  me  any,"  spoke  up  Florence 
Ludlow,  the  youngest  of  the  three  sisters.  "For  my 
part,  I  liked  Mary  Jones  very  much.  She  was " 

"  You  are  too  much  of  a  child  to  be  able  to  judge  in 
matters  of  this  kind,"  said  the  mother,  interrupting 
Florence. 

Florence  was  fifteen;  light-hearted  and  innocent. 
She  had  never  been  able,  thus  far  in  life,  to  appreciate 
the  exclusive  principles  upon  which  her  mother  and 
sisters  acted,  and  had,  in  consequence,  frequently  fallen 
under  their  censure.  Purity  of  heart,  and  the  genuine 
graces  flowing  from  a  truly  feminine  spirit,  always  at- 
tracted her,  no  matter  what  the  station  of  the  individ- 
ual in  whose  society  she  happened  to  be  thrown.  The 
remark  of  her  mother  silenced  her,  for  the  time,  for 
experience  had  taught  her  that  no  good  ever  resulted 
from  a  repetition  of  her  opinions  on  a  subject  of  this 
kind. 

"  And  I  trust  she  will  ever  remain  the  child  she  is, 
in  these  matters,"  said  Uncle  Joseph,  with  emphasis. 
"  It  is  the  duty  of  every  one,  sister,  to  do  all  that  he 
can  to  set  aside  the  false  ideas  of  distinction  prevailing 
in  the  social  world,  and  to  build  up  on  a  broader  and 
truer  foundation,  a  right  estimate  of  men  and  things. 


158          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

Florence,  I  have  observed,  discriminates  according  tc 
the  quality  of  the  person's  mind  into  whose  society  she 
is  thrown,  and  estimates  accordingly.  But  you,  and 
*Smily,  and  Adeline,  judge  of  people  according  to  their 
ank  in  society — that  is  according  to  the  position  to 
which  wealth  alone  has  raised  them.  In  this  way,  and 
in  no  other,  can  you  be  thrown  so  into  association  with 
'  all  kinds  of  people,'  as  to  be  really  affected  by  them. 
For,  the  result  of  my  observation  is,  that  in  any  circle 
where  a  mere  external  sign  is  the  passport  to  associa- 
tion, '  all  sorts  of  people,'  the  good,  the  bad,  and  the 
indifferent,  are  mingled.  It  is  not  a  very  hard  thing 
for  a  bad  man  to  get  rich,  sister  ;  but  for  a  man  of  evil 
principles  to  rise  above  them,  is  very  hard,  indeed ;  and 
is  an  occurrence  that  too  rarely  happens.  The  conse- 
quence is,  that  they  who  are  rich,  are  not  always  the 
ones  whom  we  should  most  desire  to  mingle  with." 

"  I  don't  see  that  there  is  any  use  in  our  talking 
about  these  things,  brother,"  replied  Mrs.  Ludlow. 
"You  know  that  you  and  I  never  did  agree  in  matters 
of  this  kind.  As  I  have  often  told  you,  I  think  you 
incline  to  be  rather  low  in  your  social  views." 

"How  can  that  be  a  low  view  which  regards  the 
quality  of  another,  and  estimates  him  accordingly  ?" 
was  the  reply. 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  argue  with  you,  on  these  subjects, 


GOING    TO    THE    SPRINGS.  159 

brother;  so  you  will  oblige  me  by  dropping  them," 
said  Mrs.  Ludlow,  coloring,  and  speaking  in  an  offended 
tone. 

"Well,   well,  never  mind,"  Uncle  Joseph   replied 
socthingly.     "  We  will  drop  them." 

Then  turning  to  Emily,  he  continued — 

"  And  so  your  minds  are  made  up  not  to  go  to  Sara 
toga  f ' 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

"  Well,  where  do  you  intend  spending  the  summer 
months  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know  yet     But,  if  I  have  my  say,  we 
will  take  a  trip  in  one  of  the  steamers.     A  flying  visit 
«o  London  would  be  delightful." 
"  What  does  your  father  say  to  that  ?" 
"  Why,  he  won't  listen  to  it.     But  I'll  do  my  best  to 
bring  him  round— and  so  will  Adeline.     As  for  Flor- 
ence, I  believe  I  will  ask  father  to  let  her  go  to  Saratoga 
with  the  Joneses." 

"  I  shall  have  no  very  decided  objections,"  'was  the 
quiet  reply  of  Florence.  A  half  angry  and  reproung 
glance  from  her  mother,  warned  her  to  be  more  discreet 
in  the  declaration  of  her  sentiments. 

A  young  lady  should  never  attempt  to  influence 
her  father,"  said  Uncle  Joseph.  "She  should  trust  to 
his  judgment  in  all  matters,  and  be  willing  to  deny 


160          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

herself  any  pleasure  to  which  he  objected.  If  you* 
father  will  not  listen  to  your  proposition  to  go  to 
London,  be  sure  that  he  has  some  good  reason  for 
if" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  he  has  such  very  good 
reasons,  beyond  his  reluctance  to  go  away  from  busi- 
ness," Emily  replied,  tossing  her  head. 

"  And  should  not  you,  as  his  daughter,  consider  this 
a  most  conclusive  reason  ?  Ought  not  your  father's 
wishes  and  feelings  be  considered  first  ?" 

"  You, may  see  it  so,  Uncle  ;  but  I  cannot  say  that  I 
do." 

"  Emily,"  and  Uncle  Joseph  spoke  in  an  excited  tone 
of  voice,  "  If  you  hold  these  sentiments,  you  are 
unworthy  of  such  a  man  as  your  father  !" 

"  Brother,  you  must  not  speak  to  the  girls  in  that 
way,"  said  Mrs.  Ludlow. 

"  I  shall  always  speak  my  thoughts  in  your  house 
Margaret,"  was  the  reply ;  "  at  least  to  you  and  the 
girls.  As  far  as  Mr.  Ludlow  is  concerned,  I  have  rarely 
occasion  to  differ  with  him." 

A  long  silence  followed,  broken  at  last  by  an  allusion 
to  some  other  subject ;  when  a  better  understanding 
among  all  parties  ensued. 

On  that  evening,  Mr.  Ludlow '  seemed  graver  than 
visual  when  he  came  in.  After  tea,  Emily  said,  break 


TO    THE    SPRINGS.  161 

iiig  in  upon  a  conversation  that  had  become  somewhat 
interesting  to  Mr.  Ludlow — 

"  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  have  a  moment's  peace, 
Pa,  until  you  consent,  to  go  to  England  with  us  this 
season." 

"  Fm  afraid  it  wiL  be  a  long  time  before  I  shall  have 
any  peace,  then,  Emily,"  replied  the  father,  with  an 
effort  to  smile,  but  evidently  worried  by  the  remark. 
This,  Florence,  who  was  sitting  close  by  him,  perceived 
instantly,  and  said — 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  you,  for  one,  Pa,  that  I  don't  wish 
to  go.  I'd  rather  stay  at  home  a  hundred  times." 

u  It's  no  particular  difference,  I  presume,  what  you 
like,"  remarked  Emily,  ill-naturedly.  "  If  you  don't 
wish  to  go,  I  suppose  no  one  will  quarrel  with  you  for 
staying  at  home." 

"  You  are  wrong  to  talk  so,  Emily,"  said  Mr.  Ludlow, 
calmly  but  firmly,  "  and  I  cannot  permit  such  remarks 
in  my  presence." 

Emily  looked  rebuked,  and  Mr.  Ludlow  proceeded. 

"  As  to  going  to  London,  that  is  altogether  out  of 
the  question.  The  reasons  why  it  is  so,  are  various, 
and  I  cannot  now  make  you  acquainted  with  all  of 
them.  One  is,  that  I  cannot  leave  ray  business  so  long 
as  such  a  journey  would  require.  Another  is,  that  I  do 
not  think  it  altogether  right  for  me  to  indulge  you  in 


162          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

8uch  views  and  feelings  as  you  and  Adeline  are  begin- 
ning to  entertain.  You  wish  to  go  to  London,  because 
you  don't  want  to  go  to  Saratoga,  or  to  any  other  of 
ur  watering  places  ;  *nd  you  don't  want  to  go  there, 
Decause  certain  others,  whom  you  esteem  below  you  in 
rank,  can  afford  to  enjoy  themselves,  and  recruit  their 
health  at  the  same  places  of  public  resort.  All  this  I 
do  not  approve,  and  cannot  encourage." 

"  You  certainly  cannot  wish  us  to  associate  with 
every  one,"  said  Emily,  in  a  tone  less  arrogant. 

"  Of  course  not,  Emily,"  replied  Mr.  Ludlow  ;  "  but  I 
do  most  decidedly  condemn  the  spirit  from  which  you 
are  now  acting.  It  would  exclude  others,  many  of 
whom,  in  moral  character,  are  far  superior  to  yourself, 
from  enjoying  the  pleasant,  health-imparting  recreation 
of  a  visit  to  the  Springs,  because  it  hurts  your  self- 
importance  to  be  brought  into  brief  contact  w«th 
them." 

"  I  can't  understand  what  you  mean  by  speaking  of 
these  kind  of  people  as  superior  in  moral  character  to 
us,"  Mrs.  Ludlow  remarked. 

"  I  said  some  of  them.  And,  in  this,  I  mean  what  I 
say.  Wealth  and  station  in  society  do  not  give  moral 
tone.  They  are  altogether  extraneous,  and  too  fre- 
quently exercise  a  deteriorating  influence  upon  the 
character.  There  is  Thomas,  the  porter  in  my  store — • 


GOING    TO    THE    SPRINGS.  163 

a  plain,  pocr  man,  of  limited  education  ;  yet  possessing 
high  moral  qualities,  that  I  would  give  much  to 
call  my  own.  This  man's  character  I  esteem  far  above 
that  of  many  in  society  .to  whom  no  one  thinks  of 
objecting.  There  are  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
humble  and  unassuming  persons  like  him,  far  superior 
in  the  high  moral  qualities  of  mind  to  the  mass  of  self- 
esteeming  excluSkes,  who  think  the  very  air  around 
them  tainted  by  their  breath.  Do  you  suppose  that  I 
would  enjoy  less  the  pleasures  of  a  few  weeks  at 
Saratoga,  because  Thomas  was  there  ?  I  would,  rather, 
be  gratified  to  see  him  enjoying  a  brief  relaxation,  if 
his  dudes  at  the  store  could  be  remitted  in  my  ab- 
sence." 

There  was  so  much  of  the  appearance  of  truth  in 
what  Mr.  Ludlow  said,  combined  with  a  decided  tone 
and  manner,  that  neither  his  wife  or  daughters  ventured 
a  reply.  But  they  had  no  affection  for  the  truth  he 
utttered,  and  of  course  it  made  no  salutary  impression 
on  their  minds. 

"  What  shall  we  do,  Ma  ?"  asked  Adeline,  as  they 
sat  with  their  mother,  on  the  next  afternoon.  "  We 
must  go  somewhere  this  summer,  and  Pa  seems  in 
earnest  about  not  letting  us  visit  London." 

"I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,  child,"  was  the  reply. 


164          HEART    HISTORIKS    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  I  can't  think  of  going  to  Saratoga,"  said  Emily,  iu 
a  positive  tone. 

"  The  Emmersons  are  going,"  Adeline  remarked. 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  Emily  in  a  tone  of 
surprise. 

"  Victorine  told  me  so  this  morning." 

"  She  did !" 

"  Yes.  I  met  her  at  Mrs.  Lemraington's  and  she 
said  that  they  were  all  going  next  week." 

"  I  don't   understand  that,"  said  Emily,  musingly. 

"  It  was  only  last  week  that  Victorine  told  me  that 
they  were  done  going  to  Saratoga ;  that  the  place  had 
become  too  common.  It  had  been  settled,  she  said, 
that  they  were  to  go  out  in  the  next  steamer." 

"  Mr.  Emmerson,  I  believe,  would  not  consent,  and 
so,  rather  than  not  go  anywhere,  they  concluded  to 
visit  Saratoga,  especially  as  the  Lesters,  and  Milfords, 
and  Luptons  are  going." 

"Are  they  all  going?"  asked  Emily,  in  renewed 
surprise. 

"  So  Victorine  said." 

M  Well,  I  declare  1  there  is  no  kind  of  dependence  to 
be  placed  in  people  now-a-days.  They  all  told  me  that 
they  could  not  think  of  going  to  such  a  vulgar  place  as 
Saratoga  again"." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  Emily  resumed, 


GOING    TO    THE    SPRINGS.  165 

"  As  it  will  never  do  to  stay  at  home,  we  will  have 
to  go  somewhere.  What  do  you  think  of  the  Virginia 
Springs,  Ma  ?" 

"  I  think  that  I  am  not  going  there,  to  be  jolted  haL 
«o  death  in  a  stage  coach  by  the  way." 

"  Where,  then,  shall  we  go  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  unless  to  Saratoga." 

"  Victorine  saW,"  remarked  Adeline,  "  that  a  large 
number  of  distinguished  visiters  were  to  be  there,  and 
that  it  was  thought  the  season  would  be  the  gayest 
spent  for  some  time." 

"  I  suppose  we  will  have  to  go,  then,"  said  Emily. 

"  I  am  ready,"  responded  Adeline." 

"  And  so  am  I,"  said  Florence. 

That  evening  Mr.  Ludlow  was  graver  and  more  silent 
than  usual.  After  tea,  as  he  felt  no  inclination  to  join 
in  the  general  conversation  about  the  sayings  and 
doings  of  distinguished  and  fashionable  individuals,  he 
took  a  newspaper,  and  endeavored  to  become  interested 
n  its  contents.  But  he  tried  in  vain.  There  was 
something  upon  his  mind  that  absorbed  his  attention 
at  the  same  time  that  it  oppressed  his  feelings.  From 
a  deep  reverie  he  was  at  length  roused  by  Emily,  who 
said — 

"  So,  Pa,  you  are  determined  not  to  let  us  go  out  ia 
the  next  steamer  ?" 


186          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  on  that  subject  any  more,  if  you 
please,"  replied  Mr.  Ludlow,  much,  worried  at  th*e 
remark. 

"  Well,  that's  all  given  up  now,"  continued  Emily, 
"and  we've  made  up  our  minds  to  go  to  Saratoga. 
How  soon  will  you  be  able  to  go  with  us  ?" 

"Not  just  now,"  was  the  brief,  evasive  reply. 

"  We  don't  want  to  go  until  next  week." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  can  go  even  then." 

"  O,  but  we  must  go  then,  Pa." 

"  You  cannot  go  without  me,"  said  Mr.  Ludlow,  in  a 
grave  tone. 

"  Of  course  not,"  replied  Emily  and  Adeline  at  the 
same  moment. 

"  Suppose,  then,  I  cannot  leave  the  city  next  week  ?" 

"  But  you  can  surely." 

"  I  am  afraid  not.  Business  matters  press  upon  me, 
and  will,  I  fear,  engage  my  exclusive  attention  for 
several  weeks  to  come." 

"0,  but  indeed  you  must  lay  aside  business,"  said 
Mrs.  Ludlow.  "  It  will  never  do  for  us  to  stay  at  home, 
you  know,  during  the  season  when  everybody  is  away." 

"  I  shall  be  very  sorry  if  circumstances  arise  to 
prevent  you  having  your  regular  summer  recreation," 
was  replied,  in  a  serious,  even  sad  tone.  "  But,  I  trust 


GOING    TO    THE   SPRINGS.  167 

my  wife  and  daughters  will  acquiesce  with  cheerful- 
ness." 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  Pa !  We  never  can  stay  at  home," 
said  Emily,  with  a  distressed  look.  "  How  would  i* 
appear  ?  What  would  people  say  if  we  were  to  remain 
in  the  city  during  all  the  summer  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Emily,  that  you  should  consider  that 
as  having  any  relation  to  the  matter.  What  have 
other  people  to  do  with  matters  which  concerns  u.% 
alone »" 

"  You  talk  very  strangely  of  late,  Mr.  Ludlow,"  said 
his  wife. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  reason  for  so  doing,"  he  responded, 
a  shadow  flitting  across  his  face: 

An  embarrassing  silence  ensued,  which  was  broken, 
at  last,  by  Mr.  Ludlow. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  began,  "  there  may  occur  no  better 
time  than  the  present,  to  apprise  you  all  of  a  matter 
that  must,  sooner  or  later,  become  known  to  you.  We 
will  have  to  make  an  effort  to  reduce  our  expenses — 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  this  matter  of  going  to  the 
Springs,  which  will  cost  some  three  or  four  hundred 
dollars,  might  as  well  be  dispensed  with.  Business  is 
in  a  worse  condition  than  I  have  ever  known  it ;  and 
I  am  sustaining,  almost  daily,  losses  that  are  becoming 
alarming.  Within  the  last  six  weeks  I  have  lost, 


168          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE   PICTURES. 

beyond  hope,  at  least  twenty  thousand  dollars.  How 
much  more  will  go  I  am  unable  to  say.  But  there  are 
large  sums  due  me  that  may  follow  the  course  of  that 
Iready  gone.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  am  driven 
to  the  necessity  of  prudence  in  all  my  expenditures." 

"But  three  or  four  hundred  are  not  much,  Pa," 
Emily  urged,  in  a  husky  voice,  and  with  dimmed  eyes. 
For  the  fear  of  not  being  able  to  go  somewhere,  was 
terrible  to  her.  None  but  vulgar  people  staid  at  home 
during  the  summer  season. 

"  It  is  too  large  a  sum  to  throw  away  now.  So  I 
think  you  had  all  better  conclude  at  once  not  to  go 
from  home  this  summer,"  said  Mr.  Ludlow. 

A  gush  of  tears  from  Emily  and  Adeline  followed 
this  annunciation,  accompanied  by  a  look  of  decided 
disapprobation  from  the  mother.  Mr.  Ludlow  felt 
deeply  tried,  and  for  some  moments  his  resolution 
wavered  ;  but  reason  came  to  his  aid,  and  he  remained 
firm.  He  was  accounted  a  very  rich  merchant.  In 
good  times,  he  had  entered  into  business,  and  prose- 
cuted it  with  great  energy.  The  consequence  was,  that 
he  had  accumulated  money  rapidly.  The  social  eleva- 
tion consequent  upon  this,  was  too  much  for  his  wife. 
Her  good  sense  could  not  survive  it.  She  not  only 
became  impressed  with  the  idea,  that,  because  she  was 
richer,  she  was  better  than  others,  but  that  only  such 


GOIKO    TO    THE    SPRINGS.  139 

customs  were  to  be  tolerated  in  "  good  society,"  as  were 
different  from  prevalent  usages  in  the  mass.  Into  this 
idea  her  two  eldest  daughters  were  thoroughly  inducted. 
Mr.  Ludlow,  immersed  in  business,  thought  little  about 
such  matters,  and  suffered  himself  to  be  led  into 
almost  anything  that  his  wife  and  daughters  proposed. 
But  Mrs.  Ludlow's  brother — Uncle  Joseph,  as  he  was 
called — a  baclTelor,  and  a  man  of  strong  common 
sense,  steadily  opposed  his  sister  in  her  false  notions,  but 
with  little  good  effect.  Necessity  at  last  called  into 
proper  activity  the  good  sense  of  Mr.  Ludlow,  and  he 
commenced  the  opposition  that  has  just  been  noticed. 
After  reflecting  some  time  upon  the  matter,  he  resolved 
not  to  assent  to  his  family  leaving  home  at  all  during 
the  summer. 

All  except  Florence  were  exceedingly  distressed  at 
this.  She  acquiesced  with  gentleness  and  patience, 
although  she  had  much  desired  to  spend  a  few  weeks 
at  Saratoga.  But  Mrs.  Ludlow,  Emily,  and  Adeline, 
closed  up  the  front  part  of  the  house,  and  gave 
directions  to  the  servants  not  to  answer  the  door  bell, 
nor  to  do  anything  that  would  give  the  least  suspicion 
that  the  family  were  in  town.  Then  ensconcing  them- 
selves in  the  back  buildings  of  their  dwelling,  they 
waited  in  gloomy  indolence  for  the  "  out  of  the  city" 
season  to  pass  away ;  consoling  themselves  with  the 


170          HEAKi'    HISTORIES   AND   LIFE   PICTURES. 

idea,  that  if  they  were  not  permitted  to  join  the 
fashionables  at  the  Springs,  it  would  at  least  be 
supposed  that  they  had  gone  some  where  into  the 
country,  and  thus  they  hoped  to  escape  the  terrible 
penalty  of  losing  caste  for  not  conforming  to  au 
indispensable  rule  of  high  life. 

Mr.  Ludlow  was  compelled  to  submit  to  all  this,  and 
he  did  so  without  much  opposition  ;  but  it  all  deter- 
mined him  to  commence  a  steady  opposition  to  the  false 
principles  which  prompted  such  absurd  observances. 
As  to  Uncle  Joseph,  he  was  indignant,  and  failing  to 
gain  admittance  by  way  of  the  front  door  after  one  or 
two  trials,  determined  not  to  go  near  his  sister  and 
nieces,  a  promise  which  he  kept  for  a  few  weeks,  at 
least. 

Meantime,  every  thing  was  passing  off  pleasantly  at 
Saratoga.  Among  the  distinguished  and  undistin- 
guished visitors  there,  was  Mary  Jones,  and  her  father, 
a  man  of  both  wealth  and  worth,  notwithstanding  he 
was  only  a  watchmaker  and  jeweller.  Mary  was  a 
girl  of  no  ordinary  character.  With  beauty  of  person 
far  exceeding  that  of  the  Misses  Ludlow,  she  had  a 
well  cultivated  mind,  and  was  far  more  really  and  truly 
accomplished  than  they  were.  Necessarily,  therefore, 
she  attracted  attention  at  the  Springs ;  and  this  -had 
been  one  cause  of  Emily's  objection  to  her. 


GOING    IO    THE     SPRINGS.  1*71 

A  day  or  two  after  her  arrival  at  Saratoga,  she  wa» 
sitting  near  a  window  of  the  public  parlor  of  one  of 
the  hotels,  when  a  young  man,  named  Armand,  whom 
she  had  seen  there  several  times  before,  during  the 
watering  season,  in  company  with  Emily  Ludlow,  with 
whose  family  he  appeared  to  be  on  intimate  terms 
came  up  to  her  and  introduced  himselfc 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss  Jones,"  said  he,  "  but  not  seeing 
any  of  the  Miss  Ludlows  here,  I  presumed  that  you 
might  be  able  to  inform  me  whether  they  intend 
visiting  Saratoga  or  not,  this  season,  and,  therefore,  I 
have  broken  through  all  formalities  in  addressing  you. 
You  are  well  acquainted  with  Florence,  I  believe  2" 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  Mary, replied. 

"  Then  perhaps  you  can  answer  my  question  I" 

"  I  believe  I  can,  sir.  I  saw  Florence  several  times 
within  the  last  week  or  two ;  and  she  says  that  they 
shall  not  visit  any  of  the  Springs  this  season." 

"  Indeed  1     And  how  comes  that  ?" 

"  I  believe  the  reason  is  no  secret,"  Mary  replied, 
utterly  unconscious  that  any  one  could  be  ashamed  of 
a  right  motive,  and  that  an  economical  one.  "  Florence 
tells  me  that  her  father  lias  met  with  many  heavy 
losses  in  business ;  and  that  they  think  it  best  not  to 
incur  any  unnecessary  expenses.  I  almire  such  a 
course  in  them."  • 


172          HEART    HISTORIES    J  ND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  And  s  do  I,  most  sincerely,"  replied  Mr.  Armand. 
Then,  after  thinking  for  a  moment,  he  added — 

"  I  will  return  to  the  city  in  the  next  boat.  All  of 
their  friends  being  away,  they  must  feel  exceedingly 
lonesome." 

"  It  will  certainly  be  a  kind  act,  Mr.  Armand,  and 
one,  the  motive  for  which  they  cannot  but  highly 
appreciate,"  said  Mary,  with  an  inward  glow  of 
admiration. 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  on  the  next  day  that  Mr. 
Armand  pulled  the  bell  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Ludlow's 
beautiful  dwelling,  and  then  waited  with  a  feeling  of 
impatience  for  the  servant  to  answer  the  summons. 
But  he  waited  in  vain.  .No  servant  came.  He  rang 
again,  and  again  waited  long  enough  for  a  servant  to 
come  half  a  dozen  times.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the 
house  and  saw  that  all  the  shutters  were  closed  ;  and 
down  upon  the  marble  steps,  and  perceived  that  they 
were  covered  with  dust  and  dirt ;  and  on  the  bell- 
handle,  and  noted  its  loss  of  brightness. 

u  Miss  Jones  must  have  been  mistaken,"  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  gave  the  bell  a  third  pull,  and  then 
waited,  but  in  vain,  for  the  hall-door  to  be  swung  open. 

"  Who  can  it  be  ?"  asked  Emily,  a  good  deal 
disturbed,  as  tlfle  bell  rang  violently  for  th«  third  time. 


TO    THE    SPRINGS.  173 

and,  in  company  with  Adeline,  went  softly  into  th« 
parlor  to  take  a  peep  through  one  of  the  shutters. 

"  Mr.  Armand,  as  I  live !"  she  ejaculated,  in  a  low* 
husky  whisper,  turning  pale.  "  I  would  not  have  him 
know  that  we  are  in  town  for  the  world  !" 

And  then  she  stole  away  quietly,  with  her  heart 
leaping  and  fluttering  in  her  bosom,  lest  he  should 
instinctively  perceive  her  presence. 

Finding  that  admission  was  not  to  be  obtained,  Mr. 
Armand  concluded  that  the  family  had  gone  to  some 
other  watering  place,  and  turned  away  irresolute  as  to 
his  future  course.  As  he  was  passing  down  Broadway, 
he  met  Uncle  Joseph. 

"  So  the  Ludlows  are  all  out  of  town,"  he  said. 

"  So  they  are  not !"  replied  Uncle  Joseph,  rather 
crustily,  for  he  had  just  been  thinking  over  their  strange 
conduct,  and  it  irritated  him. 

"  Why,  I  have  been  ringing  there  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  and  no  one  came  to  the  door  ;  and  the  house 
is  all  shut  up." 

"  Yea  ;  and  if  you  had  rung  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century,  it  would  all  have  been  the  same." 

"  I  can't  understand  you,"  said  Mr.  Armand. 

"  Why,  the  truth  is,  Mr.  Ludlow  cannot  go  to  the 
Springs  with  them  this  season,  and  they  are  so  afraid 
that  it  will  become  known  that  they  are  burying  them- 


174         HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

selves  in  the  back  part  of  the  house,  and  denying  all 
visitors." 

"  Why  so  t     I  cannot  comprehend  it." 

"  All  fashionable  people,  you  know,  are  expected  to 

o  to  the  sea-shore  or  the  Springs ;  and  my  sister  and 

her  two  eldest  daughters  are  so  silly,  as  to  fear  that 

they  will  lose  caste,  if  it  is  known  that  they  co'uld  not 

go  this  season.     Do  you  understand  now  ?" 

"  Perfectly." 

"  Well,  that's  the  plain  A  B  C  of  the  case.  But  it 
provokes  me  out  of  all  patience  with  them." 

"  It's  a  strange  idea,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Armand,  in 
momentary  abstraction  of  thought;  and  then  bidding 
Uncle  Joseph  good  morning,  he  walked  hastily  along, 
his  mind  in  a  state  of  fermentation. 

The  truth  was,  Mr.  Armand  had  become  much 
attached  to  Emily  Ludlow,  for  she  was  a.  girl  of 
imposing  appearance  and  winning  manners.  But  this 
staggered  him.  If  she  were  such  a  slave  to  fashion 
ind  observance,  she  was  not  the  woman  for  his  wife. 
As  he  reflected  upon  the  matter,  and  reviewed  his 
intercourse  with  her,  he  could  remember  many  things 
in  her  conversation  and  conduct  that  he  did  not  like. 
He  could  distinctly  detect  a  degree  of  self-estimation 
consequent  upon  her  station  in  society,  that  did  not 
meet  his  approbation — because  it  indicated  a  weaknesa 


GOING    TO    THE    SPRINGS.  1*74 

of  mind  that  he  had  no  wish  to  have  in  a  wife.  The 
wealth  of  her  father  he  had  not  regarded,  nor  did  now 
regard,  for  he  was  himself  possessor  of  an  independence. 

Two  days  after,  he  was  again  at  Saratoga.  The 
orief  interview  that  had  passed  between- him  and  Mary 
Jones  was  a  sufficient  introduction  for  him  ;  and,  taking 
advantage  of  i^,  he  threw  himself  in  her  way  frequently, 
and  the  more  he  saw  of  her,  the  more  did  he  admire 
her  winning  gentleness,  sweet  temper,  and  good  sense. 
When  he  returned  to  New  York,  he  was  more  than 
half  in  love  with  her. 

"  Mr.  Armand  has  not  been  to  see  us  once  this  fall," 
said  Adeline,  one  evening  in  October.  They  were  sit- 
ting in  a  handsomely  furnished  parlor  in  a  neat  dwelling, 
comfortable  and  commodious,  but  not  so  splendid  as  the 
one  they  had  occupied  a  few  months  previous.  Mr. 
Ludlow's  affairs  had  become  so  embarrassed,  that  he 
determined,  in  spite  of  the  opposition  of  his  family,  to 
reduce  his  expenses.  This  resolution  he  carried  out 
amid  tears  and  remonstrances — for  he  could  not  do  it 
n  any  other  way. 

"  Who  could  expect  him  to  come  here  ?"  Emily 
replied,  to  the  remark  of  her  sister.  "  Not  I,  certainly." 

"  I  don't  believe  that  would  make  any  difference  with 
him,"  Florence  ventured  to  say,  for  it  was  little  that 
she  could  say,  that  did  not  meet  with  opposition. 


176          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

'•  Why  don't  you  ?"  asked  Adeline. 

"  Because  Mary  Jones " 

"  Mary  Jones  again  !"  ejaculated  Emily.  "  I  beheva 
you  don't  think  of  anybody  but  Mary  Jones.  I'm  sur- 
prised that  Ma  lets  you  visit  that  girl !" 

"  As  good  people  as  I  am  visit  her,"  replied  Florence. 
"I've  seen  those  there  who  would  be  welcome  here." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  If  you  had  waited  until  I  had  finished  my  sen- 
tence, you  would  have  known  before  now.  Mary  Jones 
lives  in  a  house  no  better  than  this,  and  Mr.  Armand 
goes  to  see  her.'' 

"  I  don't  believe  it !"  said  Emily,  with  emphasis. 

"  Just  as  you  like  about  that.  Seeing  is  believing, 
they  say,  and  as  I  have  seen  him  there,  I  can  do  no  less 
than  believe  he  was  there." 

"  When  did  you  see  him  there  ?"  Emily  now  asked 
with  eager  interest,  while  her  face  grew  pale. 

"  I  saw  him  there  last  evening — and  he  sat  convers- 
ing with  Mary  in  a  way  that  showed  them  to  be  no 
strangers  to  each  other." 

A  long,  embarrassed,  and  painful  silence  followed  this 
announcement.  At  last,  Emily  got  up  and  went  off  to 
her  chamber,  where  she  threw  herself  upon  her  bed  and 
burst  into  tears.  After  these  ceased  to  flow,  and  her 
mind  had  become,  in  some  degree,  tranquillized,  her 


GOING    TO    THE    SPRINGS.  177 

thoughts  became  busy.  She  remembered  that  Mr. 
Armand  had  called,  while  they  were  hiding  away  in 
fear  lest  it  should  be  known  that  they  were  not  on  a 
fashionable  visit  to  some  watering  place — how  he  had 
rung  and  rung  repeatedly,  as  if  under  the  idea  that 
they  were  there,  and  how  his  countenance  expressed 
disappointment  as  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  it  through 
the  closed  shutters.  With  all  this  came,  also,  the  idea 
that  he  might  have  discovered  that  they  were  at  home, 
and  have  despised  the  principle  from  which  they  acted, 
in  thus  shutting  themselves  up,  and  denying  all  visiters. 
This  thought  was  exceedingly  painful.  It  was  evident 
to  her,  that  it  was  not  their  changed  circumstances  that 
kept  him  away — for  had  he  not  visited  Mary  Jones  ? 

Uncle  Joseph  came  in  a  few  evenings  afterwards, 
and  during  his  visit  the  following  conversation  took 
place. 

"  Mr.  Armand  visits  Mary  Jones,  I  am  told,"  Adeline 
remarked,  as  an  opportunity  for  saying  so  occurred. 

"  He  does  ?  Well,  she  is  a  good  girl — one  in  a  thou- 
sand," replied  Uncle  Joseph. 

"  She  is  only  a  watchmaker's  daughter,"  said  Emily, 
with  an  ill-concealed  sneer. 

"  And  you  are  only  a  merchant's  daughter.  Pray, 
what  is  the  difference  P 

u  Why,  a  good  deal  of  difference !" 
8* 


1*78          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURE*. 

"  Well  state  it." 

"  Mr.  Jones  is  nothing  but  a  mechanic." 

"  Well  I" 

"  Who  Chinks  of  associating  with  mechanics  ?" 

"  There  may  be  some  who  refuse  to  do  so  ;  but  upon 
what  grounds  do  they  assume  a  superiority  ?" 

"  Because  they  are  really  above  them." 

"  But  in  what  respect  ?" 

"  They  are  better  and  more  esteemed  in  society." 

"  As  to  their  being  better,  that  is  only  an  assumption. 
But  I  see  I  must  bring  the  matter  right  home.  Would 
ycu  be  really  any  worse,  were  your  father  a  mechanic  ?" 

"  The  question  is  not  a  fair  one.  You  suppose  an 
impossible  case." 

"  Not  so  impossible  as  you  might  imagine.  You  are 
the  daughter  of  a  mechanic." 

"  Brother,  why  will  you  talk  so  ?  I  am  out  of  all 
patience  with  you  !"  said  Mrs.  Ludlow,  angrily. 

"And  yet,  no  one  knows  better  than  you,  that  I 
speak  only  the  truth.  No  one  knows  better  than  you, 
hat  Mr.  Ludlow  served  many  years  at  the  trade  of  a 
shoemaker.  And  that,  consequently,  these  high- 
minded  young  ladies,  who  sneer  at  mechanics,  are 
themselves  a  shoemaker's  daughters — a  fact  that  is  just 
as  well  known  abroad  as  anything  else  relating  to  the 
family.  And  now,  Misses  Emily  and  Adeline,  I  hope 


OOIXO    TO    THE    SPRINGS.  179 

you  will  hereafter  find  it  in  your  hearts  to  be  a  little 
more  tolerant  of  mechanics'  daughters." 

And  thus  saying,  Uncle  Joseph  rose,  and  bidding 
them  good,  night,  left  them  to  their  own  reflections, 
which  were  not  of  the  most  pleasant  character,  especially 
as  the  mother  could  not  deny  the  allegation  he  had 
made. 

During  the  next  summer,  Mr.  Ludlow,  whose  busi- 
ness was  no  longer  embarrassed,  and  who  had  become 
satisfied  that,  although  he  should  sink  a  large  propor- 
tion of  a  handsome  fortune,  he  would  still  have  a  com- 
petence left,  and  that  well  secured — proposed  to  visit 
Saratoga,  as  usual.  There  was  not  a  dissenting  voice 
— no  objecting  on  the  score  of  meeting  vulgar  people 
there.  The  painful  fact  disclosed  by  Uncle  Joseph,  of 
their  plebeian  origin,  and  the  marriage  of  Mr.  Armand — 
whose  station  in  society  was  not  to  be  questioned — 
with  Mary  Jones,  the  watchmaker's  daughter,  had  soft- 
ened and  subdued  their  tone  of  feeling,  and  caused 
them  to  set  up  a  new  standard  of  estimation.  The  old 
one  would  not  do,  for,  judged  by  that,  they  would  have 
to  hide  their  diminished  heads.  Their  conduct  at  the 
Springs  was  far  less  objectionable  than  it  had  been 
heretofore,  partaking  of  the  modest  and  retiring  in 
deportment,  rather  than  the  assuming,  the  arrogant, 


180          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

and  the  self-sufficient.  Mrs.  Arinand  was  there,  with 
her  sister,  moving  in.  the  first  circles  ;  and  Emily  Lud- 
low  and  her  sister  Adeline  felt  honored  rather  than 
humiliated  by  an  association  with  them.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  they  will  yet  make  sensible  women. 


THE  WIFE. 


"  I  AM  hopeless !"  said  the  young  man,  in  a  voioa 
that  was  painfully  desponding.  "  Utterly  hopeless  ! 
Heaven  knows  I  have  tried  hard  to  get  employment ! 
But  no  one  has  need  of  my  service.  The  pittance 
doled  out  by  your  father,  and  which  comes  with  a 
sense  of  humiliation  that  is  absolutely  heart-crushing, 
is  scarcely  sufficient  to  provide  this  miserable  abode, 
and  keep  hunger  from  our  door.  But  for  your  sake,  I 
would  not  touch  a  shilling  of  his  money  if  I  starved." 

"  Hush,  dear  Edward !"  returned  the  gentle  girl,  who 
had  left  father,  mother,  and  a  pleasant  home,  to  share 
the  lot  of  him  she  loved ;  and  she  laid  a  finger  on  his 
lips,  while  she  drew  her  arm  around  him. 

"Agnes,"  said  the  young  man,  "I  cannot  endure 
this  life  much  longer.  The  native  independence  of 
my  character  revolts  at  our  present  condition.  Months 


182          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

have  elapsed,  and  yet  the  ability  I  possess  finds  no 
employment.     In  this  country  every  avenue  is  crowded." 

The  room  in  which  they  were  overlooked  the  sea. 

"  But  there  is  another  land,  where,  if  what  we  he? 
be  true,  ability  finds  employment  and  talent  a  sure 
reward."  And,  as  Agnes  said  this,  in  a  voice  of 
encouragement,  she  pointed  from  the  window  towards 
the  expansive  waters  that  stretched  far  away  towards 
the  south  and  west. 

"  America !"  The  word  was  uttered  in  a  quick, 
earnest  voice. 

«  Yes." 

"  Agnes,  I  thank  you  for  this  suggestion  !  Return 
to  the  pleasant  home  you  left  for  one  who  cannot 
procure  for  you  even  the  plainest  comforts  of  life,  and  I 
wih1  cross  the  ocean  to  seek  a  better  fortune  in  that  land 
of  promise.  The  separation,  painful  to  both,  will  not,  I 
trust,  be  long." 

"  Edward,"  replied  the  young  wife  with  enthusiasm, 
as  she  drew  her  arm  more  tightly  about  his  neck,  " 
will  never  leave  thee  nor  forsake  thee !     Where  thou 
goest  I  will  go,  and  where  thou  liest  I  will  lie.     Thy 
people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God." 

"  Would  you  forsake  all,"  said  Edward,  in  surprise, 
u  and  go  far  away  with  me  into  a  strange  land  ?" 


THE   WIFE.  183 

"  It  will  be  no  stranger  to  me  than  it  will  be  to  you. 

Edward." 

"No,  no,  Agnes!  I  will  not  think  of  that,"  said 
Edward  Marvel,  in  a  positive  voice.  "  If  I  go  to  that 
land  of  promise,  it  must  first  be  alone." 

"  Alone !"  A  shadow  fell  over  the  face  of  Agnes. 
"  Alone !  It  cannot — it  must  not  be  I" 

"But  think,-Agnes.  If  I  go  alone,  it  will  cost  me 
but  a  small  sum  to  live  until  I  find  some  business, 
which  may  not  be  for  weeks,  or  even  months  after  I 
arrive  in  the  New  World." 

"  What  if  you  were  to  be  sick  ?"  The  frame  of 
Agnes  slightly  quivered  as  she  made  this  sugges- 
tion. 

"  We  will  not  think  of  that" 

"  I  cannot  help  thinking  of  it,  Edward.  Therefore 
entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee,  nor  to  return  from  follow- 
ing after  thee.  Where  thou  goest,  I  will  go." 

Marvel's  countenance  became  more  serious. 

**  Agnes,"  said  the  young  man,  after  he  had  reflected 
for  some  time, "  let  us  think  no  more  about  this.  I 
cannot  take  you  far  away  to  this  strange  country.  We 
will  go  back  to  London.  Perhaps  another  trial  there 
may  be  more  successful." 

After  a  feeble  opposition  on  the  part  of  Agnes,  it  was 
finally  agreed  that  Edward  should  go  once  more  to 


184          HEART    HISTORIES   AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

London,  while  she  made  a  brief  visit  to  her  parents, 
If  he  found  employment,  she  was  to  join  him  imme- 
diately ;  if  not  successful,  they  were  then  to  talk  further 
of  the  journey  to  America. 

With  painful  reluctance,  Agnes  went  back  to  her 
father's  house,  the  door  of  which  ever  stood  open  to 
receive  her ;  and  she  went  back  alone.  The  pride  of 
her  husband  would  not  permit  him  to  cross  the  threshold 
of  a  dwelling  where  his  presence  was  not  a  welcome 
one.  In  eager  suspense,  she  waited  for  a  whole  week 
ere  a  letter  came  from  Edward.  The  tone  of  this  letter 
was  as  cheerful  and  as  hopeful  as  it  was  possible  for 
the  young  man  to  write.  But,  as  yet,  he  had  found  no 
employment.  A  week  elapsed  before  another  came. 
It  opened  in  these  words  : — - 

"  MY  DEAR,  DEAR  AGXES  1  Hopeless  of  doing  any- 
thing here,  I  have  turned  my  thoughts  once  more  to 
the  land  of  promise ;  and,  when  you  receive  this,  I  will 
be  on  my  journey  thitherward.  Brief,  very  brief,  I 
trust,  will  be  our  separation.  The  moment  I  obtain 
employment,  I  will  send  for  you,  and  then  our  re-union 
will  take  place  with  a  fulness  of  delight  such  as  we 

have  not  yet  experienced." 
i 

L»ng,  tender,  and  hopeful  was  the  letter;  but  it 
brought  a  burden  of  grief  and  heart-sickness  to  the 


THE    WIFK.  l^J 

tender  young  creature,  who  felt  almost  as  if  she  had 
been  deserted  by  the  one  who  was  dear  to  her  as  her 
own  life. 

Only  a  few  days  had  Edward  Marvel  been  at  sea, 
when  he  became  seriously  indisposed,  and,  for  the 
remaining  part  of  the  voyage,  was  so  ill  as  to  be  unable 
to  rise  from  his  berth.  He  had  embarked  in  a  packet 
ship  from  Liverpool  bound  for  New  York,  where  he 
arrived,  at  the  expiration  of  five  weeks.  Then  he  was 
removed  to  the  sick  wards  of  the  hospital  on  Staten 
Island,  and  it  was  the  opinion  of  the  physicians  there 
that  he  would  die. 

"Have  you  friends  in  this  country?"  inquired  a 
nurse  who  was  attending  the  young  man.  This  question 
was  asked  on  the  day  after  he  had  become  an  inmate 
of  the  hospital. 

"  None,"  was  the  feebly  uttered  reply. 

"  You  are  very  ill,"  said  the  nurse. 

The  sick  man  looked  anxiously  into  the  face  of  his 
'  attendant. 

"  You  have  friends  in  England  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Have  you  any  communication  to  make  to  them  ?n 

Marvel  closed  his  eyes,  and  remained  for  some  tim* 
•ilent. 


186          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  If  you  will  get  me  a  pen  and  some  paper,  I  will 
write  a  few  lines,"  said  he  at  length. 

"  I'm  afraid  y  DU  are  too  weak  for  the  effort,"  replied 
the  nurse. 

"  Let  me  try,"  was  briefly  answered. 

The  attendant  left  the  room. 

"  Is  there  any  one  in  your  part  of  the  house  named 
Marvel  2"  asked  a  physician,  meeting  the  nurse  soon 
after  she  had  left  the  sick  man's  room.  "  There's  a 
young  woman  down  in  the  office  inquiring  for  a  person 
of  that  name." 

"  Marvel — Marvel  ?"  the  nurse  shook  her  head. 

"  Are  you  certain  ?"  remarked  the  physician. 

"  I'm  certain  there  is.  no  one  by  that  name  for  whom 
any  here  would  make  inquiries.  There's  a  young 
Englishman  who  came  over  in  the  last  packet,  whose 
name  is  something  like  that  you  mention.  But  he  has 
no  friends  in  this  country." 

The  physician  passed  on  without  further  remark. 

Soon  after,  the  nurse  returned  to  Marvel  with  the 
writing  materials  for  which  he  had  asked.  She  drew  a 
table  to  the  side  of  his  bed,  and  supported  him  as  he 
leaned  over  and  tried,  with  an  unsteady  hand,  to 
write. 

"  Have  you  a  wife  at  home  ?"  asked  the  nurse ;  her 
eyes  had  rested  on  the  first  words  he  wrote. 


THE    WIFE.  187 

u  Yea,"  sighed  the  young  man,  as  the  pen  dropped 
from  his  fingers,  and  he  leaned  back  heavily,  exhausted 
by  even  the  slight  effort  he  had  made. 

"  Your  name  is  Marvel !" 

«  Yes." 

*  A  young  woman  was  here  just  now  inquiring  if  we 
had  a  patient  by  that  name." 

"  By  my  name  ?"  There  was  a  slight  indication  of 
surprise. 

"Yes." 

Marvel  closed  his  eyes,  and  did  not  speak  for  some 
moments. 

"  Did  you  see  her  ?"  he  asked  at  length,  evincing 
some  interest. 

"  Yes." 

u  Did  she  find  the  one  for  whom  she  was  seeking  ?" 

"  There  is  no  person  here,  except  yourself,  whose 
name  came  near  to  the  one  she  mentioned.  As  you 
said  you  had  no  friends  in  this  country,  we  did  not 
suppose  that  you  were  meant." 

"  No,  no."    And  the  sick  man  shook  his  head  slow 
ly.     "  There  is  none  to  ask  for  me.    Did  you  say  it  was 
a  young  woman  1"  he  inquired,  soon  after.     His  mind 
dwelt  on  the  occurrence. 

"  Yes.  A  young  woman  with  a  fair  complexion  and 
deep  blue  eyes." 


188          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

Marvel  looked  up  quickly  into  the  face  ot  the 
attendant,  while  a  flush  came  into  his  cheeks. 

"  She  was  a  slender  young  girl,  with  light  hair,  and 
her  face  was  pale,  as  from  trouble." 

"  Agnes !  Agnes !"  exclaimed  Marvel,  rising  up. 
"But,  no,  no,"  he  added,  mournfully,  sinking  back 
again  upon  the  bed  ;  "  that  cannot  be.  I  left  her  far 
away  over  the  wide  ocean." 

"  Will  you  write  ?"  said  the  nurse  after  some  mo- 
ments. 

The  invalid,  without  unclosing  his  eyes,  slowly  shook 
his  head.  A  little  while  the  attendant  lingered  in  his 
room,  and  then  retired. 

"  Dear,  dear  Agnes !"  murmured  Edward  Marvel, 
closing  his  eyes,  and  letting  his  thoughts  go,  swift- 
winged,  across  the  billowy  sea.  "  Shall  I  never  look 
on  your  sweet  face  again  ?  Never  feel  your  light  arms 
about  my  neck,  or  your  breath  warm  on  my  cheek  f 
Oh,  that  I  had  never  left  you!  Heaven  give  thee 
strength  to  bear  the  trouble  in  store  !" 

For  many  minutes  he  lay  thus,  alone,  with  his  eyes 
closed,  in  sad  self-communion.  Then  he  heard  the 
door  open  and  close  softly ;  but  he  did  not  look  up. 
His  thoughts  were  far,  far  away.  Light  feet  approached 
quickly ;  but  he  scarcely  heeded  them.  A  form  be  it 
over  him ;  but  his  eyes  remained  shut,  nor  did  he  op  * 


THE    WIFE.  189 

them  until  warm  lips  were  pressed  against  his  own, 
and  a  low  voice,  thrilling  through  his  whole  being, 
said — 

"Edward!" 

"  Agnes !"  was  his  quick  response,  while  his  arms 
were  thrown  eagerly  around  the  neck  of  his  wife, 
Agnes !  Agnes !  Have  I  awakened  from  a  fearful 
dream  ?" 

Yes,  it  was  indeed  her  of  whom  he  had  been  think- 
ing. The  moment  she  received  his  letter,  informing 
her  that  he  had  left  for  the  United  States,  she  resolved 
to  follow  him  in  the  next  steamer  that  sailed.  This 
purpose  she  immediately  avowed  to  her  parents.  At 
first,  they  would  not  listen  to  her ;  but,  finding  that  she 
would,  most  probably,  elude  their  vigilance,  and  get 
away  in  spite  of  all  efforts  to  prevent  her,  they  deemed 
it  more  wise  and  prudent  to  provide  her  with  everything 
necessary  for  the  voyage,  and  to  place  her  in  the  care 
of  the  captain  of  the  steamship  in  which  she  was  to  go. 
In  New  York  they  had  friends,  to  whom  they  gave  her 
letters  fully  explanatory  of  her  mission,  and  earnestly 
commending  her  to  their  care  and  protection. 

Two  weeks  before  the  ship  in  which  Edward  Marvel 
bailed  reached  her  destination,  Agnes  was  in  New 
York.  Before  her  departure,  she  had  sought,  but  in 
vain,  to  discover  the  name  of  the  vessel  in  which  her 


190          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

husband  had  embarked.  On  arriving  in  the  New 
World,  she  was  therefore  uncertain  whether  he  had 
preceded  her  in  a  steamer,  or  was  still  lingering  on  the 


The  friends  to  whom  Agnes  brought  letters  received 
her  with  great  kindness,  and  gave  her  all  the  advice  and 
assistance  needed  under  the  circumstances.  But  two 
weeks  went  by  without  a  word  of  intelligence  on  the 
one  \ubject  that  absorbed  all  her  thoughts.  Sadly  was 
her  health  beginning  to  suffer.  Sunken  eyes  and 
pale  cheeks  attested  the  weight  of  suffering  that  was  on 
her. 

One  day  it  was  announced  that  a  Liverpool  packet 
had  arrived  with  the  ship  fever  on  board,  and  that 
several  of  the  passengers  had  been  removed  to  the 
hospital. 

A  thrill  of  fear  went  through  the  heart  of  the 
anxious  wife.  It  was  soon  ascertained  that  Marvel  had 
been  a  passenger  on  board  of  this  vessel;  but,  from 
some  cause,  nothing  in  regard  to  him  beyond  this  fact 
could  she  learn.  Against  all  persuasion,  she  started 
for  the  hospital,  her  heart  oppressed  with  a  fearful 
presentiment  that  he  was  either  dead  or  struggling  in 
the  grasp  of  a  fatal  malady.  On  making  inquiry  at 
the  hospital,  she  was  told  the  one  she  sought  was  not 


THE    WIFE.  191 

there,  and  she  was  about  returning  ta   the  city,  when 
the  truth  reached  her  ears. 

"  Is  he  very  ill  ?"  she  asked,  struggling  to  compose 
herself! 

"  Yee,  he  is  extremely  ill,"  was  the  reply.  "And  it 
might  not  be  well  for  you,  under  the  circumstances,  to 
see  him  at  present." 

"  Not  well  for  his  wife  to  see  him  ?"  returned  Agnes. 
Tears  sprung  to  her  eyes  at  the  thought  of  not  Being 
permitted  to  come  near  in  his  extremity.  "  Do  not  say 
that.  Oh,  take  me  to  him !  I  will  save  his  life." 

"  You  must  be  very  calm,"  said  the  nurse ;  for  it  was 
with  her  she  was  talking.  "  The  least  excitement  may 
be  fatal." 

"  Oh,  I  will  be  calm  and  prudent."  Yet,  even  while 
she  spoke,  her  frame  quivered  with  excitement. 

But  she  controlled  herself  when  the  moment  ot 
meeting  came,  and,  though  her  unexpected  appear 
ance  produced  a  shock,  it  was  salutary  rather  thai 
injurious. 

"My  dear,  dear  Agnes!"  said  Edward  Marvel,  s. 
month  from  this  time,  as  they  sat  alone  in  the  chamber 
of  a  pleasant  house  in  New  York,  "  I  owe  you  my  life. 
But  for  your  prompt  resolution  to  follow  me  across  the 
•ea,  I  would,  in  all  probability,  now  be  sleeping  the 


192          HEART    HISTORIES    AND   LIFE    PICTURES. 

sleep  of  death.  Oh,  what  would  I  not  suffer  for  your 
take  r 

As  Marvel  uttered  the  last  sentence,  a  troubled  ex- 
pression flitted  over  his  countenance.  Agnes  gazed 
tenderly  into  his  face,  and  asked — 

"  Why  this  look  of  doubt  and  anxiety  I" 

"  Need  1  answer  the  question  ?"  returned  the  young 
man.  "  It  is,  thus  far,  no  better  with  me  than  when 
we  left  our  old  home.  Though  health  is  coming  back 
through  every  fibre,  and  my  heart  is  filled  with  an 
eager  desire  to  relieve  these  kind  friends  of  the  burden 
of  our  support,  yet  no  prospect  opens." 

No  cloud  came  stealing  darkly  over  the  face  of  the 
young  wife.  The  sunshine,  so  far  from  being  dimmed, 
was  brighter. 

"  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,"  said  she,  with  a 
beautiful  smile.  "  All  will  come  out  right" 

"  Right,  Agnes  ?  It  is  not  right  for  me  thus  to 
depend  on  strangers." 

"  You  need  depend  but  a  little  while  longer.  I  have 
already  made  warm  friends  here,  and,  through  them, 
secured  for  you  employment  A  good  place  awaits  you 
»o  soon  as  strength  to  fill  it  comes  back  to  your  weak- 
ened frame." 

"  Angel !"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  overcome  with 
«motion  at  so  unexpected  a  declaration. 


THE   WIFE.  193 

•*  No,  not  au  angel,"  calmly  replied  Agnes,  u  only  a 
wife.  And  now,  dear  Edward,"  she  added,  "never 
again,  in  any  extremity,  think  for  a  moment  of  meeting 
trials  or  enduring  privations  alone.  Having  taken  a 
wife,  you  cannot  move  safely  on  your  journey  unless  she 
moves  by  your  side." 

"  Angel  I  Yes,  you  are  my  good  angel."  repeated 
Edward. 

"  Call  me  what  you  will,"  said  Agnes,  with  a  sweet 
smile,  as  she  brushed,  with  her  delicate  hand,  the  Hair 
from  his  temples  ;  "  but  let  me  be  your  wife.  ..  asc  00 
better  name,  no  higher  station." 


NOT  GREAT,  BUT  HAPPY. 


How  pure  and  sweet  is  the  love  of  young  hearts  1 
hfow  little  does  it  contain  of  earth — how  much  of 
heaven  !  No  selfish  passions  mar  its  beauty.  Its 
tenderness,  its  pathos,  its  devotion,  who  does  net 
remember,  even  when  the  sere  leaves  of  autumn  are 
rustling  beneath  his  feet  ?  How  little  does  it  regard  the 
cold  and  calculating  objections  of  wondly-mindedness. 
They  are  heard  but-  as  a  passing  murmur.  The  deep, 
unswerving  confidence  of  young  love,  what  a  blessed 
thing  it  is  !  Heart  answers  to  heart  without  an 
unequal  throb.  The  world  around  is  bright  and 
beautiful :  the  atmosphere  is  filled  with  spring's  most 
delicious  perfumes. 

From  this  dream — why  should  we  call  it  a  dream  ? — 
Is  it  not  a  blessed  reality  ? — Is  not  young,  fervent  love, 
true  love  f  Alas !  this  is  an  evil  world,  and  man's 
heart  is  evil.  From  this  dream  there  is  too  often  a 


NOT  6KKAT,  BUT  HAPPT.  195 

tearful  awaking.  Often,  too  often,  hearts  are  suddenly 
torn  asunder,  and  wounds  are  made  that  never  heal,  or, 
healing,  leave  hard,  disfiguring  scars.  But  this  is  not 
always  so.  Pure  love  sometimes  finds  its  own  sweet 
reward.  I  will  relate  one  precious  instance. 

The  Baron  Holbein,  after  having  passed  ten  years  of 
active  life  in  a  large  metropolitan  city  of  Europe, 
retired  to  his  estate  in  a  beautiful  and  fertile  valley,  far 
away  from  the  gay  circle  of  fashion — far  away  from  the 
sounds  of  political  rancor  with  which  he  had  been  too 
long  familiar — far  away  from  the  strife  of  selfish  men 
and  cont«nding  interests.  He  had  an  only  child,  Nina, 
just  fifteen  years  of  age.  For  her  sake,  as  well  as  to 
indulge  his  love  of  quiet  and  nature,  he  had  retired 
from  the  world.  Her  mother  had  been  with  the 
angels  for  some  years.  Without  her  wise  counsels  and 
watchful  care,  the  father  feared  to  leave  his  innocent- 
minded  child  exposed  to  the  temptations  that  must 
gather  around  her  in  a  large  city. 

For  a  time  Nina  missed  her  young  companions,  and 
pined  to  be  with' them.  The  old  castle  was  lonely,  and 
the  villagers  did  not  interest  her.  Her  father  urged 
her  to  go  among  the  peasantry,  and,  *s  an  inducement, 
placed  a  considerable  sum  of  money  at  her  command, 
to  be  used  as  she  might  see  best  in  works  of  benevo- 
lence. Nina's  heart  was  warm,  and  her  impulse-.. 


196          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

generous.  The  idea  pleased  her,  and  she  acted  upon 
it.  She  soon  found  employment  enough  both  for  her 
time  and  the  money  placed  at  her  disposal.  Among 
the  villagers  was  a  woman  named  Blanche  Delebarre,  a 
widow,  whose  only  son  had  been  from  home  since  his 
tenth  year,  under  the  care  of  an  uncle,  who  had  offered 
to  educate  him,  and  fit  him  for  a  life  of  higher  useful 
ness  than  that  of  a  mere  peasant.  There  was  a 
gentleness  about  this  woman,  and  something  that 
marked  her  as  superior  to  her  class.  Yet  she  was  an 
humble  villager,,  dependent  upon  the  labor  of  her  own 
hands,  and  claimed  no  higher  station. 

Nina  became  acquainted  with  Blanche  soon  after  the 
commencement  of  her  residence  at  the  castle.  When 
she  communicated  to  her  the  wishes  of  her  father,  and 
mentioned  the  money  that  had  been  placed  at  her 
disposal,  the  woman  took  her  hand  and  said,  while  a 
beautiful  light  beamed  from  her  countenance — 

"  It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive,  my  child. 
Happy  are  they  who  have  the  power  to  confer  benefits, 
and  who  do  so  with  willing  hearts.  I  fear,  however, 
that  you  will  find  your  task  a  difficult  one.  Every- 
where are  the  idle  and  undeserving,  and  these  are  more 
apt  to  force  themselves  forward  as  objects  of  benevo- 
lence than  the  truly  needy  and  meritorious.  As  I 


NOT  GREAT,  BUT  HAPPT.  197 

know  every  one  in  the  village,  perhaps  I  may  be  able 
to  guide  you  to  such  objects  as  deserve  attention." 

u  My  good  mother,"  replied  Nina,  "  I  will  confide  in 

•ur  judgment.     I  will  make  you  my  almoner." 
'   "  No,  my  dear  young  lady,  it  will  be  better  for  you 
to  dispense  with  your  own  hands.     I  will  merely  aid 
you  to  make  a  wise  dispensation." 

"  I  am  ready  to  begin.     Show  me  but  the  way." 
'  u  Do  you  see   that   company  of   children   on   the 
green  ?"  said  Blanche. 

"  Yes.     And  a  wild  company  they  are." 

"  For  tours  each  day  they  assemble  as  you  see  them, 
and  spend  their  time  in  idle  sports.  Sometimes  they 
disagree  and  quarrel.  That  is  worse  than  idleness. 
Now,  come  here.  Do  you  see  that  little  cottage 
yonder  on  the  hill-side,  with  vines  clustering  around  the 
door  r 

«  Yes." 

M  An  aged  mother  and  her  daughter  reside  there. 
The  labor  of  the  daughter's  hands  provides  food  and 
raiment  for  both.  These  children  need  instruction,  and 
Jennet  Fleury  is  fully  qualified  to  impart  it.  Their 
parents  cannot,  or  will  not,  pay  to  send  them  to  school, 
and  Jennet  must  receive  some  return  for  her  labors, 
whatever  they  be." 

"  I  see  it  all,"  cried  Nina  with  animation.     "  There 


198          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

must  be  a  school  in  the  village.  Jenne,  shall  be  the 
teacher." 

"  If  this  can  be  done,  it  will  be  a  great  blessing," 
said  Blanche. 

"  It  shall  be  done.  Let  us  go  over  to  that  sweet 
little  cottage  at  once  and  see  Jennet." 

The  good  Blanche  Delebarre  made  no  objection.  In 
a  little  while  they  entered  the  cottage.  Every  thing 
was  homely,  but  neat  and  clean.  Jennet  was  busy  at 
her  reel  when  they  entered.  She  knew  the  lady  of 
Castle  Holbein,  and  arose  up  quickly  and  in  some 
confusion.  But  she  soon  recovered  herself,  and  wel- 
comed, with  a  low  courtesy,  the  visiters  who  had  come 
to  grace  her  humble  abode.  When  the  object  of  this 
visit  was  made  known,  Jennet  replied  that  the 
condition  of  the  viHage  children  had  often  pained  her, 
and  that  she  had  more  than  once  prayed  that  some 
way  would  open  by  which  they  could  receive  instruction. 
She  readily  accepted  the  proposal  of  Nina  to  become 
their  teacher,  and  wished  to  receive  no  more  for  the 
service  than  what  she  could  now  earn  by  reeling  silk. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  get  the  proposed  school 
in  operation.  The  parents  were  willing  to  send  their 
children,  the  teacher  was  willing  to  receive  them,  and 
the  young  lady  patroness  was  willing  to  meet  the 
expenses. 


NOT  GREAT,  BUT  HAPPY.          199 

Nina  said  nothing  to  her  father  of  what  she  was 
doing.  She  wished  to  surprise  him  some  day,  after 
every  thing  was  going  on  prosperously.  But  a  matter 
of  so  much  interest  to  the  neighborhood  could  no*  , 
remain  a  secret.  The  school  had  not  been  in  operation 
two  days  before  the  baron  heard  all  about  it.  But  he 
said  nothing  to  his  daughter.  He  wished  to  leave  her 
the  pleasure  which  he  knew  she  desired,  that  of  telling 
him  herself. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  Nina  presented  her  father 
with  an  account  of  what  she  had  done  with  the  money 
he  had  placed  in  her  hands.  The  expenditure  had 
been  moderate  enough,  but  the  good  done  was  far 
beyond  the  baron's  anticipations.  Thirty  children  were 
receiving  daily  instructions ;  nurses  had  been  employed, 
and  medicines  bought  for  the  sick  ;  needy  persons,  who 
had  no  employment,  were  set  to  work  in  making  up 
clothing  for  children,  who,  for  want  of  such  as  was 
suitable,  could  not  attend  the  school.  Besides,  many 
other  things  had  been  done.  The  account  was  looked 
over  by  the  Baron  Holbein,  and  each  item  noted  wit! 
sincere  pleasure.  He  warmly  commended  Nina  for 
what  she  had  done  ;  he  praised  the  prudence  with 
which  she  had  managed  what  she  had  undertaken,  and 
begged  her  to  persevere  in  the  good  work. 

For  the  space  of  more  than  a  year  did  Nina  submit 


200          HEART    HISTORIES   AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

to  her  father,  for  approval,  every  month  an  accurate 
statement  of  what  she  had  done,  with  a  minute  account 
of  all  the  moneys  expended.  But  after  that  time  she 
.  failed  to  render  this  account,  although  she  received  the 
usual  supply,  and  was  as  actively  engaged  as  before  in 
works  of  benevolence  among  the  poor  peasantry.  The 
father  often  wondered  at  this,  but  did  not  inquire  the 
cause.  He  had  never  asked  an  account :  to  render  it 
had  been  a  voluntary  act,  and  he  could  not,  therefore, 
ask  why  it  was  withheld.  He  noticed,  however,  a 
change  in  Nina.  She  was  more  thoughtful,  and 
conversed  less  openly  than  before.  If  he  looked  at  her 
intently,  her  eyes  would  sink  to  the  floor,  and  the  color 
deepen  on  her  cheek.  She  remained  longer  in  her  own 
room,  alone,  than  she  had  done  since  their  removal  to 
the  castle.  Every  day  she  went  out,  and  almost  always 
took  the  direction  of  Blanche  Delebarre's  cottage,  where 
she  spent  several  hours. 

Intelligence  of  his  daughter's  good  deeds  did  not,  so 
often  as  before,  reach  the  old  baron's  ears ;  and  yet 
Nina  drew  as  much  money  as  before,  and  had  twice 
asked  to  have  the  sum  doubled.  The  father  could  not 
understand  the  meaning  of  all  this.  He  did  not 
believe  that  any  thing  was  wrong — he  had  too  much 
confidence  in  Nina — but  he  was  puzzled.  We  will 
briefly  apprise  the  reader  of  the  cause  of  this  change. 


KOT  GREAT,  BUT  HArPT.  201 

One  day — it  was  nearly  a  year  from  the  time  Nina 
had  become  a  constant  visitor  at  Blanche  Delebarre's— 
the  young  lady  sat  reading  a  book  in  the  matron's 
cottage.  She  was  alone — Blanche  having  gone  out  to 
visit  a  sick  neighbor  at  Nina's  request.  A  form 
suddenly  darkened  the  door,  and  some  one  entered 
hurriedly.  Nina  raised  her  eyes,  and  met  the  gaze  of 
a  youthful  stranger,  who  had  paused  and  stood  looking 
at  her  with  surprise  and  admiration.  With  more 
confusion,  but  with  not  less  of  wonder  and  admiration, 
did  Nina  return  the  stranger's  gaze. 

"  Is  not  this  the  cottage  of  Blanche  Delebarre  ?" 
asked  he,  after  a  moment's  pause.  His  voice  was  low 
and  musical. 

•  "  It  is,"  replied  Nina.     "  She  has  gone  to  visit  a  sick 
neighbor,  but  will  return  shortly." 

"  Is  my  mother  well  ?"  asked  the  youth. 

Nina  rose  to  her  feet.  This,  then,  was  Pierre 
Delebarre,  of  whom  his  mother  had  so  often  spoke, 
^he  heart  of  the  maiden  fluttered. 

"  The  good  Blanche  is  well,"  was  her  simple  reply. 
'  I  will  go  and  say  to  her  that  her  son  has  come  home. 
It  will  make  her  heart  glad." 

"  My  dear  young  .ady,  no  !"  said  Pierre.     "  Do  not 
disturb  my  mother  in  her  good  work.     Let  her  come 
borne  and  meet  me  here — the  surprise  will  add  to  the 
0* 


202         HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE   PICTURES. 

pleasure.  Sit  down  again.  Pardon  my  rudeness — but 
are  not  you  the  young  lady  from  the  castle,  of  whom 
my  mother  so  often  writes  to  me  as  the  good  angel  of 
the  village  ?  I  am  sure  you  must  be,  or  you  would 
not  be  alone  in  my  mother's  cottage." 

Nina's  blushes  deepened,  but  she  answered  without 
disguise  that  she  was  from  the  castle. 

A  full  half  hour  passed  before  Blanche  returned. 
The  young  and  artless  couple  did  not  talk  of  love  with 
their  lips  during  that  time,  but  their  eyes  beamed  with 
a  mutual  passion.  When  the  mother  entered,  so  much 
were  they  interested  in  each  other,  that  they  did  not 
hear  her  approaching  footstep.  She  surprised  them 
leaning  toward  each  other  in  earnest  conversation. 

The  joy  of  the  mother's  heart  was  great  on  meeting 
her  son.  He  was  wonderfully  improved  since  she  last 
saw  him — had  grown  several  inches,  and  had  about 
him  the  air  of  one  born  of  gentle  blood,  rather  than 
the  air  of  a  peasant.  Nina  staid  only  a  very  short 
time  after  Blanche  returned,  and  then  hurried  away 
from  the  cottage. 

The  brief  interview  held  with  young  Pierre  sealed 
the  maiden's  fate.  She  knew  nothing 'of  love  before 
the  beautiful  youth  stood  before  her — her  heart  was 
as  pure  as  an  infant's — she  was  artlessness  itself.  She. 
had  heard  him  so  often  spoken  of  by  his  mother,  that 


NOT  OKBAT,  BUT  HAPPZ.  203 

she  had  learned  to  think  of  Pierre  as  the  kindest  and 
best  of  youths.     She  saw  him,  for  the  first  time,  as  one 
to  love.    His  face,  his  tones,  the  air  of  refinement  and 
intelligence  that  was  about  him,  all  conspired  to  win 
her  young  affections.     But  of  the  true  nature  of  her 
feelings,  Nina  was  as  yet  ignorant.     She  did  not  think 
of  love.    She   did    not,  therefore,  hesitate  as  to  the 
propriety  of  continuing   her  visits  at  the  cottage  of 
Blanche  Delebarre,  nor  did  she  feel  any  reserve  in  the 
presence  of  Pierre.     Not  until  the  enamored   youth 
presumed  to  whisper  the   passion   her  presence   had 
awakened  in   his  bosom,  did  she  fully  understand  the 
cause  of  the  delight  she  always  felt  while  by  his  side. 

After  Pierre  had  been  home  a  few  weeks,  he  ventured 
to  explain  to  his  mother  the  ca.use  of  his  unexpected 
and  unannounced  return.     He  had  disagreed  with  his 
uucle,  who,  in   a  passion,  had   reminded   him  of  his 
dependence.     This  the  Ligh-Bpirited  youth  could  not 
bear,  and  he  left  his  uncle's  house  within  twenty-four 
hours,  with  a  fixed  resolution  never  to  return.     He  had 
come  back  to  the  village,  resolved,  he  said,  to  lead  a 
peasant's  life  of  toil,  rather  than  live  with  a  relative 
who  could  so  far  forget  himself  as  to  remind  him  of 
his  dependence.     Poor  Blanche  was  deeply  grieved. 
All  her  fond  hopes  for  her  s6n  were  at  an  end.     She 
at  his  small,  delicate  hands  and  slender  pro- 


204          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

portions,  and  wept  when  she  thought  of  a  peasant's  lift 
of  hard  labor. 

A  very  long  time  did  not  pas?  before  Nina  made  a 
proposition  to  Blanche,  that  relieved,  in  some  measure, 
the  painful  depression  under  which  she  labored.  It 
was  this.  Pierre  had,  from  a  child,  exhibited  a  decided 
talent  for  painting.  This  talent  had  been  cultivated  by 
the  uncle,  and  Pierre  was,  already,  quite  a  respectable 
artist  But  he  needed  at  least  a  year's  study  of  the 
old  masters,  and  more  accurate  instruction  than  he  had 
yet  received,  before  he  would  be  able  to  adopt  the 
painter's  calling  as  one  by  which  he  could  take  an 
independent  position  in  society  as  a  man.  Under- 
standing this  fully,  Nina  said  that  Pierre  must  go  to 
Florence,  and  remain  there  a  year,  in  order  to  perfect 
himself  in  the  art,  and  that  she  would  claim  the 
privilege  of  bearing  all  the  expense.  For  a  time,  the 
young  man's  proud  spirit  shrunk  from  an  acceptance  of 
this  generous  offer ;  but  Nina  and  the  mother  overruled 
all  his  objections,  and  almost  forced  him  to  go. 

It  may  readily  be  understood,  now,  why  Nina  ceased 
to  render  accurate  accounts  of  her  charitable  expendi- 
tures to  her  father.  The  baron  entertained  not  the 
slightest  suspicion  of  the  real  state  of  affairs,  until  about 
a  year  afterward,  when  a  fine  looking  youth  presented 


NOT  GREAT,  BUT  HAPPT.          20fi 

bimself  one  day,  and  boldly  preferred  a  claim  to  his 
daughter's  hand.     The  old  man  was  astounded. 

"  Who,  pray,  are  you,"  he  said,  « that  presume  to 
make  such  a  demand  ?" 

"  I  am  the  son  of  a  peasant,"  replied  Pierre,  bowing, 
and  casting  his  eyes  to  the  ground,  "  and  you  may 
think  it  presumption,  indeed,  for  me  to  aspire  to  the 
hand  of  your  noble  daughter.  But  a  peasant's  love  is 
as  pure  as  the  love  of  a  prince  ;  and  a  peasant's  heart 
may  beat  with  as  high  emotions." 

"Young  man,"  returned  the  baron,  angrily,  "your 
assurance  deserves  punishment.  But  go— never  dare 
cross  my  threshold  again  !  You  ask  an  impossibility. 
When  my  daughter  weds,  she  will  not  think  of  stoop- 
ing to  a  presumptuous  peasant  Go,  sir  !" 

Pierre  retired,  overwhelmed  with  confusion.  He  had 
been  weak  enough  to  hope  that  the  Baron  Holbein 
would  at  least  consider  his  suit,  and  give  him  some 
chance  of  showing  himself  worthy  of  his  daughter's 
hand.  But  this  repulse  dashed  every  hope  to  th 
earth. 

As  soon  as  he  parted  with  the  young  man,  the 
father  sent  a  servant  for  Nina.  She  was  not  in  her 
chamber— nor  in  the  house.  It  was  nearly  two  houre 
before  she  came  home.  When  she  entered  the  pres 


206          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTCRES. 

enoe  of  her  father,  he  saw,  by  her  countenance,  that  all 
was  not  right  with  her. 

"  Who  was  the  youth  that  came  here  some  hours 
ago  ?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 

Nina  looked  up  with  a  frightened  air,  but  did  not 
answer. 

"  Did  you  know  that  he  was  coming  ?"  said  the 
father. 

The  maiden's  eyes  drooped  to  the  ground,  and  her 
lips  remained  sealed. 

"  A  base-born  peasant !  to  dare — " 

"  Oh,  father  !  he  is  not  base  !  His  heart  is  noble," 
replied  Nina,  speaking  from  a  sudden  impulse. 

"  He  confessed  himself  the  son  of  a  peasant !  Who 
is  he  ?" 

"  He  is  the  son  of  Blanche  Delebarre,"  returned 
Nina,  timidly.  "  He  has  just  returned  from  Florence, 
an  artist  of  high  merit.  There  is  nothing  base  about 
him,  father !" 

"  The  son  of  a  peasant,  and  an  artist,  to  dare  approach 
ne  and  claim  the  hand  of  my  child  !  And  worse,  that 
child  to  so  far  forget  hir  birth  and  position  as  to  favor 
the  suit !  Madness  !  And  this  is  your  good  Blanche  ! 
— your  guide  in  all  works  of  benevolence  !  She  shall 
be  punished  for  this  base  betrayal  of  the  confidence  I 
have  reposed  in  her." 


•        NOT  GREAT,  BUT  HAPPT.  207 

Nina  fell  upon  her  knees  before. her  father,  and  with 
tears  and  earnest  entreaties  pleaded  for  the  mother  of 
Pierre  ;  but  the  old  man  was  wild  and  mad  with  anger. 
He  uttered  passionate  maledictions  on  the  head  of 
Blanche  and  her  presumptuous  son,  and  positively  for- 
bade  Nina  again  leaving  the  castle  on  any  pretext 
whatever,  under  the  penalty  of  never  being  permitted 
to  return. 

Had  so  broad  an  interdiction  not  been  made,  there 
would  have  been  some  glimmer  of  light  in  Nina's  dark 
horizon  ;  she  would  have  hoped  for  some  chancre— 

& 

would  have,  at  least,  been  blessed  with  short,  even  if 
stolen,  interviews  with  Pierre.  But  not  to  leave  the 
castle  on  any  pretext— not  to  see  Pierre  again  !  This 
was  robbing  life  of  every  charm.  For  more  than  a 
year  she  had  loved  the  young  man  with  an  affection 
to  which  every  day  added  tenderness  and  fervor. 
<3ould  this  be  blotted  out  in  an  instant  by  a  word  of 
command  ?  No  !  That  love  must  burn  on  the  same. 

The  Baron  Holbein  loved  his  daughter;  she  was  the 
bright  spot  in  life.  To  make  her  happy,  he  would 
sacrifice  almost  anything.  A  residence  of  many  years 
.in  the  world  had  shown  him  its  pretensions,  its  heart- 
lessness,  the  worth  of  all  its  titles  and  distinctions.  He 
did  not  value  them  too  highly.  But,  when  a  peasant 
approached  and  asked  the  hand  of  his  daughter,  the 


208          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

old  man's  pride,  that  was  smouldering  in  the  ashes, 
burned  up  with  a  sudden  blaze.  He  could  hardly  find 
words  to  express  his  indignation.  It  took  but  a  few 
days  for  this  indignation  to  burn  low.  Not  that  he  felt 
,  more  favorable  to  the  peasant — but  less  angry  with  his 
daughter.  It  is  not  certain  that  time  would  not  have 
done  something  favorable  for  the  lovers  in  the  baron's 
mind.  But  they  could  not  wait  for  time.  Nina,  from 
the  violence  and  decision  displayed  by  her  father,  felt 
hopeless  of  any  change,  and  sought  an  early  opportu- 
nity to  steal  away  from  the  castle  and  meet  Pierre,  not- 
withstanding the  positive  commands  that  had  been 
issued  on  the  subject.  The  young  man,  in  the  thought- 
less enthusiasm  of  youth,  urged  their  flight. 

"  I  am  master  of  my  art,"  he  said,  with  a  proud  air. 
"  We  can  live  in  Florence,  where  I  have  many  friends." 

The  youth  did  not  find  it  hard  to  bring  the  confiding, 
artless  girl  into  his  wishes.  In  less  than  a  month  the 
baron  missed  his  child.  A  letter  explained  all.  She 
had  been  wedded  to  the  young  peasant,  and  they  ha 
left  for  Florence.  The  letter  contained  this  clause, 
signed  by  both  Pierre  and  Nina  : — 

"  When  our  father  will  forgive  us,  and  permit  out 
return,  we  shall  be  truly  happy — but  not  till  then." 

The  indignant  old  man  saw  nothing  but  impertinent 
assurance  in  this.     He  tore  up  the  letter,  and  trampled 


NOT  GREAT,  BUT  HAPPY.  209 

it  under  his  feet  in  a  rage.     He  swore  to  renounce  his 
child  forever ! 

For  the  Baron  Holbein,  the  next  twelve  months  were 
the  saddest  of  his  life/   Too  deeply  was  the  image  of 
his  child  impressed  upon  his  heart,  for  passion  to  efface 
it.      As  the  first  ebullitions  subsided,  and  the  atmo- 
sphere of  his  mind  grew  clear  again,  the  sweet  face  of 
his  child  was  beTore  him,  and  her  tender  eyes  looking 
into  his  own.     As  the  months  passed  away,  he  grew 
more  and  more  restless  and  unhappy.     There  was  an 
aching  void  in  his  bosom.     Night  after  night  he  would 
dream  of  his  child,  and  awake  in  the  morning  and  sigh 
that  the  dream  was  not  reality.     But  pride  was  strong 
—he  would  not  countenance  her  disobedience. 

More  than  a  year  had  passed  away^  and  not  one 
word  had  come  from  his  absent  one,  who  grew  dearer 
to  his  heart  every  day.  Once  or  twice  he  had  seen  the 
name  of  Pierre  Delebarre  in  the  journals,  as  a  young 
artist  residing  in  Florence,  who  was  destined  to  become 
eminent.  The  pleasure  these  announcements  gave  him 
was  greater  than  he  would  confess  even  to  himself. 

One  day  he  was  sitting  in  his  library,  endeavoring  to 
banish  the  images  that  haunted  him  too  continually 
when  two  of  his  servants  entered,  bearing  a  large  square 
box  in  their  arms,  marked  for  the  Baron  Holbein, 
When  the  box  was  opened,  it  was  found  to  contain  a 


210          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

large  picture,  enveloped  in  a  cloth.  This  was  removed 
and  placed  against  the  wall,  and  the  servants  retired 
•with  the  box.  The  baron,  with  unsteady  hands,  and  a 
heart  beating  rapidly,  commenced  removing  the  cloth 
hat  still  held  the  picture  from  view.  In  a  few 
moments  a  family  group  was  before  him.  There  sat 
Nina,  his  lovely,  loving  and  beloved  child,  as  perfect, 
almost,  as  if  the  blood  were  glowing  in  her  veins. 
Her  eyes  were  bent  fondly  upon  a  sleeping  cherub  that 
lay  in  her  arms.  By  her  side  sat  Pierre,  gazing  upon 
her  face  in  silent  joy.  For  only  a  single  instant  did  the 
old  man  gaze  upon  this  scene,  before  the  tears  were 
gushing  over  his  cheeks  and  falling  to  the  floor  like 
rain.  This  wild  storm  of  feeling  soon  subsided,  and,  in 
the  sweet  calm  that  followed,  the  father  gazed  with  un- 
speakable tenderness  for  a  long  time  upon  the  face  of 
his  lovely  child,  and  with  a  new  and  sweeter  feeling 
upon  the  babe  that  lay,  the  impersonation  of  innocence, 
in  her  arms.  While  in  this  state  of  mind,  he  saw,  for 
the  first  time,  written  on  the  bcttotr  of  the  picture— 
"  NOT  GREAT,  BUT  HAPPY." 

A  week  from  the  day  on  which  the  picture  was 
received,  the  Baron  Holbein  entered  Florence.  On 
inquiring  for  Pierre  Delebarre,  he  found  that  every  one 
knew  the  young  artist. 

w  Come,"  said  one,  "  let  me  go  with  you  to  the  exhi« 


NOT  GREAT,  BCT  HAPPT.  211 

bition,  and  show  you  his  picture  that,  has  taken  the 
prize.  It  is  a  noble  production.  All  Florence  is  alive 
with  its  praise." 

The  baron  went  to  the  exhibition.  The  first  picture 
that  met  his  eyes  on  entering  the  door  was  a  counter- 
part of  the  one  he  had  received,  but  larger,  and,  in  the 
admirable  lights  in  which  it  was  arranged,  looked  even 
more  like  life.  " 

"  Isn't  it  a  grand  production  ?"  said  the  baron's 
conductor. 

"  My  sweet,  sweet  child  !"  murmured  the  old  man, 
in  a  low  thrilling  voice.  Then  turning,  he  said,  abrupt- 
ly- 

"  Show  me  where  I  can  find  this  Pierre  Delebarre." 

"  With  pleasure.  His  house  is  near  at  hand,"  said 
his  companion. 

A  few  minutes'  walk  brought  them  to  the  artist's 
dwelling. 

"  That  is  an  humble  roof,"  said  the  man,  pointing  to 
where  Pierre  lived,  "  but  it  contains  a  noble  man."  He 
turned  away,  and  the  baron  entered  alone.  He  did  not 
pause  to  summon  any  one,  but  walked  in  through  the 
open  door.  All  was  silent.  Through  a  neat  vestibule, 
in  which  were  rare  flowers,  and  pictures  upon  the  wall, 
he  passed  into  a  small  apartment,  and  through  that  to 


212          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE   PICTURES. 

the  door  of  an  inner  chamber.  It  was  half  open.  He 
looked  in.  Was  it  another  picture  ?  No,  it  was  in 
very  truth  his  child  ;  and  her  babe  lay  in  her  arms,  as 
he  had  just  seen  it,  and  Pierre  sat  before  her  looking 
tenderly  in  her  face.  He  could  restrain  himself  no 
longer.  Opening  the  door,  he  'stepped  hurriedly  for- 
ward, and,  throwing  his  arms  around  the  group,  said,  in 
a  broken  voice — "  God  bless  you,  my  children  !" 

The  tears  that  were  shed ;  the  smiles  that  beamed 
from  glad  faces ;  the  tender  words  that  were  spoken, 
and  repeated  again  and  again  ;  why  need  we  tell  of  all 
these  ?  Or  why  relate  how  happy  the  old  man  was 
when  the  dove  that  had  flown  from  her  nest  came  back 
with  her  mate  by  her  side  ?  The  dark  year  had  pass- 
ed, and  there  was  sunshine  again  in  his  dwelling, 
brighter  sunshine  than  before.  Pierre  never  painted  so 
good  a  picture  again  as  the  one  that  took  the  prize — 

that  was  his  masterpiece. 

***** 

The  young  Baron  Holbein  has  an  immense  picture 
gallery,  and  is  a  munificent  patron  of  the  arts.  There 
is  one  composition  on  his  walls  he  prizes  above  all  the 
rest.  The  wealth  of  India  could  not  purchase  it.  It  is 
the  same  that  took  the  prize  when  he  was  but  a  babe 
and  lay  in  his  mother's  arms.  The  mother  who  helc1 


NOT  GREAT,  BUT  HAPPT.  213 

him  so  tenderly,  and  the  father  who  gazed  so  lovingly 
upon  her  pure  young  brow,  have  passed  away,  but  they 
live  before  him  daily,  and  he  feels  their  gentle  present 
ever  about  him  for  good. 


THE  MARRIED  SISTERS. 


u  COME,  William,  a  single  day,  out  of  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five,  is  not  much." 

"  True,  Henry  Thome.  Nor  is  the  single  drop  of 
water,  that  first  finds  its  way  through  the  dyke,  much ; 
and  yet,  the  first  drop  but  makes  room  for  a  small 
stream  to  follow,  and  then  comes  a  flood.  No,  no, 
Henry,  I  cannot  go  with  you,  to-day  ;  and  if  you  will 
be  governed  by  a  friend's  advice,  you  will  not  neglect 
your  work  for  the  fancied  pleasures  of  a  sporting 
party." 

"  All  work  and  no  play,  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy.  W 
were  not  made  to  be  delving  forever  with  tools  in  close 
rooms.  The  fresh  air  is  good  for  us.  Come,  William, 
you  will  feel  better  for  a  little  recreation.  You  look 
pale  from  confinement.  Come ;  I  cannot  go  without 
you." 

"  Henry  Thorne,"  said  his  friend,  William  Morelaud, 


THE    MARRIED    SISTERS.  215 

with  an  air  more  serious  than  that  at  first  assumed, . 
u  let  me  in  turn,  urge  you  to  stay." 

"  It  is  in  vain,  William,"  his  friend  said,  interrupting 
him. 

"  I  trust  not,  Henry.  Surely,  my  early  friend  and 
companion  is  not  deaf  to  reason." 

"  No,  not  to  right  reason." 

"  Well,  listen  "to  me.  As  I  said  at  first,  it  is  not  the 
loss  of  a  single  day,  though  even  this  is  a  serious  waste 
of  time,  that  I  now  take  into  consideration.  It  is  the 
danger  of  forming  a  habit  of  idleness.  It  is  a  mistake, 
that  a  day  of  idle  pleasure  recreates  the  mind  and  body, 
and  makes  us  returh  to  our  regular  and  necessary  em- 
ployments with  renewed  delight.  My  own  experience 
is,  that  a  day  thus  spent,  causes  us  to  resume  our  labors 
with  reluctance,  and  makes  irksome  what  before  was 
pleasant.  Is  it  not  your  own  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  ;  I  can't  altogether  say  that  it 
is ;  indeed,  I  never  thought  about  it." 

u  Henry,  the  worst  of  all  kinds  of  deception  is  self- 
deception.  Don't,  let  me  beg  of  you,  attempt  to 
deceive  yourself  in  a  matter  so  important.  I  am  sure 
you  have  experienced  this  reluctance  to  resuming  work 
after  a  day  of  pleasure.  It  is  a  universal  experience. 
And  now  that  we  are  on  this  subject,  I  will  add,  that  I 
have  observed  in  you  an  increasing  desire  to  get  away 


216          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

from  work.  You  make  many  excuses  and  they  seem 
to  you  to  be  good  ones.  Can  you  tell  me  how  many 
days  you  have  been  out  of  the  shop  in  the  last  three 
months  ?" 

"  No,  I  cannot,"  was  the  reply,  made  in  a  tone  indi- 
cating a  slight  degree  of  irritation. 

"  Well,  I  can,  Henry." 

"  How  many  is  it,  then  !" 

"  Ten  days." 

«  Never !" 

"  It  is  true,  for  I  kept  the  count." 

"  Indeed,  then,  you  are  mistaken.  I  was  only  out  a 
gunning  three  times,  and  a  fishing»'twice." 

"  And  that  makes  five  times.  But  don't  you  remem- 
ber the  day  you  were  made  sick  by  fatigue  ?" 

"  Yes,  true,  but  that  is  only  six." 

"And  the  day  you  went  up  the  mountain  with  the 
party  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  the  twice  you  staid  away  because  it  stormed  ?'' 

"  But,  William,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
matter.  If  it  stormed  so  violently  that  I  couldn't  come 
to  the  shop,  that  surely  is  not  to  be  set  down  to  the 
account  of  pleasure-taking." 

"  And  yet,  Henry,  I  was  here,  and  so  were  all  the 
workmen  but  yourself.  If  there  had  not  been  in  your 


THE    MARRIED    SISTERS.  21 Y 

mind  a  reluctance  to  coining  to  the  shop,  I  am  sure  the 
storm  would  not  have  kept  you  away.  I  am  plain 
with  you,  because  I  am  your  friend,  and  you  know  it. 
Now,  it  is  this  increasing  reluctance  on  your  part,' that 
alarms  me.  Do  not,  then,  add  fuel  to  a  flame,  that,  if 
thus  nourished,  will  consume  you." 

"But,  William " 

"  Don't  make  excuses,  Henry.  Think  of  the  aggre- 
gate of  ten  lost  days.  You  can  earn  a  dollar  and  a 
half  a  day,  easily,  and  do  earn  it  whenever  you  work 
steadily.  Ten  days  in  three  months  is  fifteen  dollars. 
All  last  winter,  Ellen  went  without  a  cloak,  because 
you  could  not  -afford  to  buy  one  for  her;  now  the 
money  that  you  could  have  earned  in  the  time  wasted 
in  the  last  three  months,  would  have  bought  her  a  very 
comfortable  one — and  you  know  that  it  is  already  Octo- 
ber, and  winter  will  soon  be  again  upon  us.  Sixty 
dollars  a  year  buys  a  great  many  comforts  for  a  poor 
man." 

Henry  Thome  remained  silent  for  some  moments. 
He  felt  the  force  of  William  Moreland's  reasoning; 
but  his  own  inclinations  were  stronger  than  his  friend's 
arguments.  He  wanted  to  go  with  two  or  three  com- 
panions a  gunning,  and  even  the  vision  of  his  young 
wife  shrinking  in  the  keen  winter  wind,  was  not  suffi- 
cient to  conquer  this  desire. 
10 


218         HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  I  will  go  this  once,  William,"  said  he,  at  length, 
with  a  long  inspiration  ;  "  and  then  I  will  quit  it.  I 
see  and  acknowledge  the  force  of  what  you  say ,  I 
never  viewed  the  matter  so  seriously  before." 

"  This  once  may  confirm  a  habit  now  too  strongly 
fixed,"  urged  his  companion.  **  Stop  now,  while  your 
mind  is  rationally  convinced  that  it  is  wrong  to  waste 
your  time,  when  it  is  so  much  needed  for  the  sake  of 
making  comfortable  and  happy  one  who  loves  you,  and 
has  cast  her  lot  in  life  with  yours.  Think  of  Ellen,  and 
be  a  man." 

"  Come,  Harry  !"  said  a  loud,  cheerful  voice  at  the 
shop  door ;  "  we  are  waiting  for  you  !" 

"  Ay,  ay,"  responded  Henry  Thorne.  "  Good  morn- 
ing, William !  I  am  pledged  for  to-day.  But  after 
this,  I  will  swear  off!"  And  so  saying,  he  hurried 
away.  , 

Henry  Thorne  and  William  Moreland  were  work- 
men in  a  large  manufacturing  establishment  in  one  of 
our  thriving  inland  towns.  They  had  married  sisters 
and  thus  a  friendship  that  had  long  existed,  was  con- 
tirrned  by  closer  ties  of  interest. 

They  had  been  married  about  two  years,  at  the  time 
of  their  introduction  to  the  reader,  and,  already,  More- 
land  could  perceive  that  his  earnings  brought  many 
more  comforts  for  his  little  family  than  did  Henry's. 


THE    MARRIED   SISTERS.  219 

The  difference  was  not  to  be  accounted  for  in  the  days 
the  other  spent  in  pleasure  taking,  although  theh 
aggregate  loss  was  no  mean  item  to  be  taken  from  a 
poor  man's  purse.  It  was  to  be  found,  mainly,  in 
disposition  to  spend,  rather  than  to  save  ;  to  pay  awa 
for  trifles  that  were  not  really  needed,  very  small  sums, 
whose  united  amounts  in  a  few  weeks  would  rise  to 
dollars.  But,  when  there  was  added  to  this  constant 
check  upon  his  prosperity  the  frequent  recurrence  of  a 
lost  day,  no  wonder  that  Ellen  had  less  of  good  and 
comfortable  clothing  than  her  sister  Jane,  and  that  her 
house  was  far  less  neatly  furnished. 

All  this  had  been  observed,  with  pain,  by  "William 
Moreland  and  his  wife,  but,  until  the  conversation 
recorded  in  the  opening  of  this  story,  no  word  or 
remonstrance  or  warning  had  been  ventured  upon  by 
the  former.  The  spirit  in  which  Moreland's  words  were 
received,  encouraged  him  to  hope  that  he  might  exei  • 
cise  a  salutary  control  over  Henry,  if  he  persevered, 
and  he  resolved  that  he  would  extend  thus  far  towards 
him  the  offices  of  a  true  friend. 

After  dinner  on  the  day  duri  ig  which  her  husband 
was  absent,  Ellen  called  in  to  see  Jane,  and  sit  the 
afternoon  with  her.  They  were  only  sisters,  and  had 
always  loved  each  other  much.  During  their  conver- 
sation, Jane  said,  in  allusion  to  the  season : 


220         HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE   PICTURES. 

"  It  begins  to  feel  a  little  chilly  to-day,  as  if  winter 
were  coming.  And,  by  the  way,  you  are  going  to  get 
a  cloak  this  fall,  Ellen,  are  you  not  ?" 

"  Indeed,  I  can  hardly  tell,  Jane,"  Ellen  replied,  in  a 
erious  tone ;  "  Henry's  earnings,  somehow  or  other, 
don't  seem  to  go  far  with  us ;  and  yet  I  try  to  be  as 
prudent  as  I  can.  We  have  but  a  few  dollars  laid  by, 
and  both  of  us  want  warm  underclothing.  Henry 
aaust  have  a  coat  and  pair  of  pantaloons  to  look  decent 
this  winter  ;  so  I  must  try  and  do  without  the  cloak,  I 
suppose." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that.  But  keep  a  good  heart  about 
it,  sister.  Next  fall,  you  will  surely  be  able  to  get  a 
comfortable  one  ;  and  you  shall  have  mine  as  often  as 
you  want  it,  this  winter.  I  can't  go  out  much,  you 
know  ;  our  dear  little  Ellen,  your  namesake,  is  too 
young  to  leave  often." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Jane,"  said  Ellen,  and  her  voice 
slightly  trembled. 

A  silence  of  some  moments  ensued,  and  then  the 
subject  of  conversation  was  changed  to  one  more  cheer- 
ful. 

That  evening,  just  about  nightfall,  Henry  Thome  came 
home,  much  fatigued,  bringing  with  him  half  a  dozen 
squirrels  and  a  single  wild  pigeon. 

u  There,  Ellen,  is  something  to  make  a  nice  pie  for 


THE    MARRIED    SISTERS.  221 

us  to-morrow,"  said  he,  tossing  his  game  bag  upon  tha 

table. 

"  You  look  tired,  Henry,"  said  his  wife,  tenderly;  I 
wouldn't  go  out  any  more  this  fall,  if  I  were  you." 

"I  don't  intend  going  out  any  more,  Ellen,"  was 
replied,  "  I'm  sick  of  it." 

"You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to  hear  you  say 
BO  !  Somehow,  Falways  feel  troubled  and  uneasy  when 
you  are  out  gunning  or  fishing,  as  if  you  were  not  doing 
right." 

"You  shall  not  feel  so  any  more,  Ellen,"  said 
Thome:  "I've  been  thinking  all  the  afternoon  about 
your  cloak.  Cold  weather  is  coming,  and  we  haven't 
a  dollar  laid  by  for  anything.  How  I  am  to  get  the 
cloak,  I  do  not  see,  and  yet  I  cannot  bear  the  thought 
of  your  going  all  this  winter  again  without  one." 

"  O,  never  mind  that,  dear,"  said  Ellen,  in  a  cheerful 
tone,  her  face  brightening  up.  '«  We  can't  afford  it  this 
fall,  and  so  that's  settled.  But  I  can  have  Jane's 
whenever  I  want  it,  she  says ;  and  you  know  she  is  so 
kind  and  willing  to  lend  me  anything  that  she  has.  I 
don't  like  to  wear  her  things ;  but  then  I  shall  not  want 
the  cloak  often." 

Henry  Thome  sighed  at  the  thoughts  his  wife's  wo-  d* 
stirred  in  his  mind. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  he  at  length  said,  des- 


222          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

pondingly ;  "  William  can't  work  any  faster  than  I  cau, 
nor  earn  more  a  week,  and  yet  he  and  Jane  have  every 
thing  comfortable,  and  are  saving  money  into  the 
bargain,  while  we  want  many  things  that  they  have, 
nd  are  not  a  dollar  ahead." 

One  of  the  reasons  for  this,  to  her  husband  so  un- 
accountable, trembled  on  Ellen's  tongue,  but  she  could 
not  make  up  her  mind  to  reprove  him ;  and  so  bore  in 
silence,  and  with  some  pain,  what  she  felt  as  a  reflection 
upon  her  want  of  frugality  in  nianaging  household 
affairs. 

Let  us  advance  the  characters  we  have  introduced,  a 
year  in  their  life's  pilgrimage,  and  see  if  there  are  any 
fruits  of  these  good  resolutions. 

"  Where  is  Thorne,  this  morning  ?"  asked  the  owner 
of  the  shop,  speaking  to  Moreland,  one  morning,  an 
hour  after  all  the  workmen  had  come  in. 

"  I  do  not  know,  really,"  replied  Moreland.  "  I  saw 
him  yesterday,  when  he  was  well " 

"  He's  off  gunning,  I  suppose,  again.  If  so,  it  is  the 
tenth  day  he  has  lost  in  idleness  during  the  last  two 
months.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  get  a  hand  in  his 
place,  upon  whom  I  can  place  more  dependence.  I 
shall  be  sorry  to  do  this  for  your  sake,  and  for  the  sake 
of  bis  wife.  But  I  do  not  like  such  an  example  to  the 


THE    MARRIED    SISTERS.  223 

workmen  and  apprentices ;  and  besides  being  away 
from  the  shop  often  disappoints  a  job." 

"  I  could  not  blame  you,  sir,"  Moreland  said ;  "  and 
yet,  I  do  hope  you  will  bear  with  him  for  the  sake  of 
Ellen.  I  think  if  you  would  talk  with  him  it  would  do 
him  good." 

"  But,  why  don't  you  talk  to  him,  William  ?" 

"  I  have  talked  to  him  frequently,  but  he  has  got  so 
that  he  won't  bear  it  any  longer  from  me." 

"  Nor  would  he  bear  it  from  me,  either,  I  fear,  Wil- 

* 

liam." 

Just  at  that  moment  the  subject  of  the  conversation 
came  in. 

"  You  are  late  this  morning,  Henry,"  said  the  owner 

of  the  shop  to  him,  in  the  presence  of  the  other  work- 
men. 

"  It's  only  a  few  minutes  past  the  time,"  was  replied, 
raoodily. 

"  It's  more  than  an  hour  past." 

"  Well,  if  it  is,  I  can  make  it  up." 

i 

"  That  is  not  the  right  way,  Henry.     Lost  time  is 

never  made  up." 

Thome  did  not  understand  the  general  truth  intend- 
ed to  be  expressed,  but  supposed,  at  once,  that  the 
master  of  the  shop  meant  to  intimate  that  he  would 
wrong  him  out  of  the  lost  hour,  notwithstanding  he 


224         HEART    HISTORIES     AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

had  promised  to  make  it  up.  He  therefore  turned  an 
angry  look  upon  him,  and  said — 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  would  cheat  you,  sir  ?" 

The  employer  was  a  hasty  man,  and.  tenacious  of  his 
dignity  as  a  master.  He  invariably  discharged  a 
journeyman  who  was  in  the  least  degree  disrespectful 
in  his  language  or  manner  towards  him  before  the  other 
workmen.  Acting  under  the  impulse  that  at  once 
prompted  him,  he  said : 

"  If  ou  are  discharged  ;"  and  instantly  turned  away. 

As  quickly  did  Henry  Thorne  turn  and  leave  the 
shop.  He  took  his  way  homeward,  "but  he  paused  and 
lingered  as  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer  his  little  cottage, 
for  troubled  thoughts  had  now  taken  the  place  of  angry 
feelings.  At  length  he  was  at  the  door,  and  lifting 
slowly  the  latch,  he  entered. 

"  Henry !"  said  Ellen,  with  a  look  and  tone  of  sur- 
prise. Her  face  was  paler  and  more  care-worn  than  -il 
was  a  year  before  ;  and  its  calm  expression  had  changed 
into  a  troubled  one.  She  had  a  babe  upon  her  lap, 
her  first  and  only  one.  The  room  in  which  she  sat,  so 
far  from  indicating  circumstances  improved  by  the 
passage  of  a  year,  was  far  less  tidy  and  comfortable ; 
and  her  own  attire,  though  neat,  was  faded  and 
unseasonable.  Her  husband  replied  not  to  her  in- 
quiring look,  and  surprised  ejaculation,  but  seated  him- 


THE    MARRIED    SISTERS.  225 

self  in  a  chair,  and  burying  his  face  in  his  hands, 
remained  silent,  until,  unable  to  endure  the  suspense, 
Ellen  went  to  him,  and  taking  his  hand,  asked,  so 
earnestly,  and  so  tenderly,  what  it  was  that  troubled 
him,  that  he  could  not  resist  her  appeal. 

"  I  am  discharged !"  said  he,  with  bitter  emphasis. 
"  And  there  is  no  other  establishment  in  the  town,  nor 
within  fifty  miles  !"* 

"  0,  Henry  !  how  did  that  happen  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know  myself,  Ellen,  for  it  all  seems  like  a 
dream.  When  I  left  home  this  morning,  I  did  not  go 
directly  to  the  shop ;  I  wanted  to  see  a  man  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  town,  and  when  I  got  back  it  was 
an  hour  later  than  usual.  Old  Ballard  took  me  to  task 
before  all  the  shop,  and  intimated  that  I  was  not 
disposed  to  act  honestly  towards  him.  This  I  cannot 
bear  from  any  one ;  I  answered  him  in  anger,  and  was 
discharged  on  the  spot.  And  now,  what  we  are  to  do, 
heaven  only  knows  !  Winter  is  almost  upon  us,  and 
we  have  not  five  dollars  in  the  world." 

u  But  something  will  turn  up  for  us,  Henry,  I  know- 
it  will,"  said  Ellen,  trying  to  smile  encouragingly, 
although  her  heart  was  heavy  in  her  bosom. 

Her  husband  shook  his  head,  doubtingly,  and  then 
all  was  gloomy  and  oppressive  silence.     For  nearly  an 
hour,  no  word  was  spoken  by  either.     Each  mind  wa? 
10* 


226          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

busy  with  painful  thoughts,  and  one  with  fearful  fore- 
bodings of  evil.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  the  husband 
took  up  his  hat  and  went  out.  For  a  long,  long  time 
ftar,  Ellen  sat  in  dreamy,  sad  abstraction,  holding  her 
oabe  to  her  breast.  From  this  state,  a  sense  of  duty 
roused  her,  and  laying  her  infant  on  the  bed, — for  they 
had  not  yet  been  able  to  spare  money  for  a  cradle, 
— she  began  to  busy  herself  in  her  domestic  duties. 
This  brought  some  little  relief. 

About  eleven  o'clock  Jane  came  in  with  her  usual 
cheerful,  almost  happy  face,  bringing'  in  her  hand  a 
stout  bundle.  Her  countenance  changed  ih  its  express- 
ion to  one  of  concern,  the  moment  her  eyes  rested  upon 
her  sister's  face,  and  she  laid  her  bundle  on  a  chair 
quickly,  as  if  she  half  desired  to  keep  it  out  of  Ellen's  sight. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Ellen  1"  she  asked,  with  tender 
concern,  the  moment  she  had  closed  the  door. 

Ellen  could  not  reply  ;  her  heart  was  too  full.  But 
she  leaned  her  head  upon  her  sister's  shoulder,  and,  for 
the  first  time  since  she  had  heard  the  sad  news  of  the 
morning,  burst  into  tears.  Jane  was  surprised,  and 
filled  with  anxious  concern.  She  waited  until  this 
ebullition  of  feeling  in  some  degree  abated,  and  then 
said,  in  a  tone  still  more  tender  than  that  in  which  sh« 
had  first  spoken, — 

"  Ellen,  dear  sister !  tell  me  what  has  happened  ?" 


THE    MARRIED    SISTERS  227 

"  I  am  foolish,  sister,"  at  length,  said  Ellen,  looking 
up,  and  endeavoring  to  dry  her  tears.  "  But  I  cannot 
help  it.  Henry  was  discharged  from  the  shop  this 
morning ;  and  now,  what  are  we  to  do  ?  We  have 
nothing  ahead,  and  I  am  afraid  he  will  not  be  able  to 
get  anything  to  do  here,  or  within  many  miles  of  the 
village." 

"  That  is  badj^Ellen,"  replied  Jane,  while  a  shadow 
fell  upon  her  face,  but  a  few  moments  before  so  glowing 
and  happy.  And  that  was  nearly  all  she  could  say; 
for  she  did  not  wish  to  offer  false  consolation,  and  she 
could  think  of  no  genuine  words  of  comfort.  After  a 
while,  each  grew  more  composed  and  less  reserved  j  and 
then  the  whole  matter  was  talked  over,  and  all  that 
Jane  could  say,  that  seemed  likely  to  soothe  and  give 
hope  to  Ellen's  mind,  was  said  with  earnestness  and 
affection. 

"What  have  you  there?"  at  length  a*ked  Ellen, 
glancing  towards  the  chair  upon  which  Jane  had  laid 
her  bundle. 

Jane  paused  a  moment,  as  if  in  self-communion,  and 
then  said — 

"  Only  a  pair  of  blankets,  and  a  couple  of  calico 
iresses  that  I  have  been  out  buj  ing." 

"  Let  me  look  at  them,"  said  Ellen,  in  as  cheerful  a 
foice  as  she  could  assume. 


228          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

A  large  heavy  pair  of  blankets,  for  which  Jane  had 
paid  five  dollars,  were  now  unrolled,  and  a  couple  of 
handsome  chintz  dresses,  of  dark  rich  colors,  suitable 
for  the  winter  season,  displayed.  It  was  with  difficulty 
that  Ellen  could  restrain  a  sigh,  as  she  looked  at  these 
comfortable  things,  and  thought  of  how  much  she 
needed,  and  of  how  little  she  had  to  hope  for.  Jane 
felt  that  such  thoughts  must  pass  through  her  sister's 
mind,  and  she  also  felt  much  pained  that  she  had  unde- 
signedly  thus  added,  by  contrast,  to  Ellen's  unhappy 
feelings.  When  she  returned  home,  she  put  away  her 
new  d»esses  and  her  blankets.  She  had  no  heart  to  look 
at  them,  no  heart  to  enjoy  her  own  good  things,  while 
the  sister  she  so  much  loved  was  denied  like  present 
comforts,  and,  worse  than  all,  weighed  down  with  a 
heart-sickening  dread  of  the  future. 

We  will  not  linger  to  contrast,  in  a  series  of  domestic 
pictures,  the  effects  of  industry  and  idleness  on  the  two 
married  sisters  and  their  families, — effects,  the  causes  of 
which,  neither  aided  materially  in  producing.  Such 
contrasts,  though  useful,  cannot  but  be  painful  to  the 
mind,  and  we  would,  a  thousand  times,  rather  give 
pleasure  than  pain.  But  one  more  striking  contrast  we 
will  give,  as  requisite  to  show  the  tendency  of  good  or 
bad  principles,  united  with  good  or  bad  habits. 

Unable   to  get    any   employment    in   the   villagel 


THE    MARRIED    SISTERS.  229 

Thome,  hearing  that  steady  work  could  be  obtained  in 
Charleston,  South  Carolina,  sold  off  a  portion  of  his 
scanty  effects,  by  wnich  he  received  money  enough  to 
remove  there  with  his  wife  and  child.  Thus  were  the 
sisters  separated  ;  and  in  that  separation,  gradually 
estranged  from  the  tender  and  lively  affection  that 
presence  and  Constant  intercourse  had  kept  burning 
with  undiminished  brightness.  Each  became  more  and 
more  absorbed,  every  day,  in  increasing  cares  and 
duties ;  yet  to  one  those  cares  and  duties  were  painful, 
and  to  the  other  full  of  delight. 

Ten  years  from  the  day  on  which  they  parted  in 

tears,  Ellen  sat,  near  the  close  of  day,  in  a  meanly 

furnished  room,  in  one  of  the  southern  cities,  watching, 

with  a  troubled  countenance,  the  restless  slumber  of 

her  husband.     Her  face  was  very  thin  and  pale,  and  it 

had  a  fixed  and  strongly  marked  expression  of  suffering. 

Two  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  the  one  about  six,  and 

the  other  a  little  over  ten  years  of  age,  were  seated 

listlessly  on  the  floor,  which   was  uncarpeted.     They 

eemed  to  have  no  heart  to  play.    Even  the  elasticity 

of  childhood    had   departed  from   them.     From  the 

appearance  of  Thome,  it  was  plain  that  he  was  very 

sick ;  and  from  all  the  indications  the  room  in  which 

he  lay,  afforded,  it  was  plain  that  want  and  suffering 

were   its    inmates.     The   habit    of    idleness    he   had 


230         HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

suffered  to  creep  at  a  slow  but  steady  pace  upon  him 
Idleness  brought  intemperance,  and  intemperance, 
reacting  upon  idleness,  completed  his  ruin,  and  reduced 
his  family  to  poverty  in  its  most  appalling  form.  Now 
he  was  sick  with  a  southern  fever,  and  his  miserable 
dwelling  afforded  him  no  cordial,  nor  his  wife  and 
children  the  healthy  food  that  nature  required. 

"  Mother !"  said  the  little  boy,  getting  up  from  the 
floor,  where  he  had  been  sitting  for  half  an  hour,  as 
still  as  if  he  were  sleeping,  and  coming  to  Ellen's  side, 
he  looked  up  earnestly  and  imploringly  in  her  face. 

"  What,  my  child  ?"  the  mother  said,  stooping  down 
and  kissing  his  forehead,  while  she  parted  with  her 
fingers  the  golden  hair  that  fell  in  tangled  masses 
over  it. 

"  Can't  I  have  a  piece  of  bread,  mother  ?" 

Ellen  did  not  reply,  but  rose  slowly  and  went  to  the 
closet,  from  which  she  took  part  of  a  loaf,  and  cutting 
a  slice  from  it,  handed  it  to  her  hungry  boy.  It  was 
her  last  loaf,  and  all  their  money  was  gone.  The  little 
fellow  took  it,  and  breaking  a  piece  off  for  his  sister, 
gave  it  to  her ;  the  two  children  then  sat  down  side  by 
side,  and  ate  in  silence  the  morsel  that  was  sweet  to 
them. 

With  an  instinctive  feeling,  that  from  nowhere  but 
above  could  she  look  for  aid  and  comfort,  did  Ellen  lift 


THE    MARRIED    SISTERS.  231 

her  heart,  and  pray  that  she  might  not  be  forsaken  in 
her  extremity.  And  then  she  thought  of  her  sister 
Jane,  from  whom  she  had  not  heard  'for  a  long,  long 
time,  and  her  heart  yearned  towards  her  with  an  eager 
and  yearning  desire  to  see  her  face  once  more. 

And  now  let  us  look  in  upon  Jane  and  her  family. 
Her  husband,  by  saving  where  Thorne  spent  in  foolish 
trifles,  and  working  when  Thorne  was  idle,  gradually 
laid  by  enough  to  purchase  a  little  farm,  upon  which  he 
had  removed,  and  there  industry  and  frugality  brought 
its  sure  rewards.     They  had  three  children  :  little  Ellen 
had  grown  to  a  lively,  rosy-cheeked,  merry-faced  girl  of 
eleven  years  ;  and  George,  who  had  followed  Ellen,  was 
in  his  seventh  year,  and  after  him  came  the  baby,  now 
just  completing  the  twelfth  month  of   its  innocent, 
happy  life.     It  was  in  the  season  when  the  farmers'  toil 
is  rewarded,  and  William  Moreland  was  among  those 
whose  labor  had  met  an  ample  return. 

How  different  was  the  scene,  in  his  well  established 
cottage,  full  to  the  brim  of  plenty  and  comfort,  to  that 
which  was  passing  at  the  same  hour  of  the  day,  a  few 
weeks  before,  in  the  sad  abode  of  Ellen,  herself  ita 
saddest  inmate. 

The  table  was  spread  for  the  evening  meal,  always 
saten  before  the  sun  hid  his  bright  face,  and  George 
and  Ellen,  although  the  supper  was  not  yet  brought  in, 


232         HEAET    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

had  taken  their  places ;  and  Moreland,  too,  had  drawn 
up  with  the  baby  on  his  knee,  which  he  was  amusing 
with  an  apple  from  a  well  filled  basket,  the  product  of 
is  own  orchard. 

A  hesitating  rap  drew  the  attention  of  the  tidy 
maiden  who  assisted  Mrs.  Moreland  in  her  duties. 

"It  is  the  poor  old  blind  man,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of 
compassion,  as  she  opened  the  door. 

"  Here  is  a  shilling  for  him,  Sally,"  said  Moreland, 
handing  her  a  piece  of  money.  "  The  Lord  has  bless- 
ed us  with  plenty,  and  something  to  spare  for  his  needy 
children." 

The  liberal  meal  upon  the  table,  the  mother  sat 
down  with  the  rest,  and  as  she  looked  around  upon 
each  happy  face,  her  heart  blessed  the  hour  that  she 
had  given  her  hand  to  William  Moreland.  Just  as  the 
meal  was  finished,  a  neighbor  stopped  at  the  door  and 
said: 

"  Here's  a  letter  for  Mrs.  Moreland  ;  I  saw  it  in  the 
post-office,  and  brought  it  over  for  her,  as  I  was  coming 
this  way." 

"  Come  in,  come  in,"  said  Moreland,  with  a  hearty 
welcoriie  in  his  voice. 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  I  can't  stop  now.  Good  evening,*" 
replied  the  neighbor. 


THE    MARRIED    SISTERS.  ^ft         233 

"  Good  evening,"  responded  Moreland,  turning  from 
the  door,  and  handing  the  letter  to  Jane. 

"  It  must  be  from  Ellen,"  Mrs.  Moreland  remarked, 
as  she  broke  the  seal.  "It  is  a  long  time  since  we 
heard  from  them  ;  I  wonder  how  they  are  doing  ?" 

She  soon  knew,  for  on  opening  the  letter  she  read 
thus : — 

SAVANNAH,  September,  18—. 

MY  DEAR  SISTER  JANE  :— Henry  has  just  died.  I  am 
left  here  without  a  dollar,  and  know  not  where  to  get 
bread  for  myself  and  two  children.  I  dare  not  tell  you 
all  I  have  suffered  since  I  parted  from  you.  I 

My  heart  is  too  full ;  I  cannot  write.  Heaven  only 
knows  what  I  shall  do  !  Forgive  me,  sister,  for  troubling 
you  ;  I  have  not  done  so  before,  because  I  did  not  wish  to 
give  you  pain,  and  I  only  do  so  now,  from  an  impulse  that 
I  cannot  resist. 

ELLEN. 

Jane  handed  the  letter  to  her  husband,  and  sat  down 
:n  a  chair,  her  senses  bewildered,  and  her  heart  sick. 

"  We  have  enough  for  Ellen,  and  her  children,  too, 
Jane,"  said  Moreland,  folding  the  letter  after  he  had 
read  it.  "  We  must  send  for  them  at  once!  Poor 
Ellen  !  I  fear  she  has  suffered  much." 

"You  are  good,  kind  and  noble-hearted,  William  !* 
exclaimed  Jane,  bursting  into  tears. 


284         HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  am  any  better  than  anybody 
else,  Jane.  But  I  can't  bear  to  see  others  suffering, 
and  never  will,  if  I  can  afford  relief.  And  surely,  if 
industry  brought  no  other  reward,  the  power  it  gives  us 
to  benefit  and  relieve  others,  is  enough  to  make  us  ever 

active  " 

*  *  •*  *  * 

In  one  month  from  the  time  Ellen's  letter  was 
received,  she,  with  her  children,  were  inmates  of  More- 
land's  cottage.  Gradually  the  light  returned  to  her 
eye,  and  something  of  the  former  glow  of  health  and 
contentment  to  her  cheek.  Her  children  in  a  few 
weeks,  were  as  gay  and  happy  as  any.  The  delight 
that  glowed  in  the  heart  of  William  Moreland,  as  he 
saw  this  pleasing  change,  was  a  double  reward  for  the 
little  he  had  sacrificed  in  making  them  happy.  Nor 
did  Ellen  fall,  with  her  children,  an  entire  burden  upon 
her  sister  and  her  husband  ; — her  activity  and  willing- 
ness found  enough  to  do  that  needed  doing.  Jane 
often  used  to  say  to  her  husband — 

"  I  don't  know  which  is  the  gainer  over  the  other,  \ 
or  Ellen ;  for  I  am  sure  I  can't  see  how  we  could  do 
without  her." 


GOOD-flEARTED  PEOPLE. 


THERE  are  two  classes  in  the  world :  one  acts  from 
impulse,  and  the  other  from  reason  ;  one  consults  the 
heart,  and  the  other  the  head.  Persons  belonging  to 
the  former  class  are  very  much  liked  by  the  majority 
of  those  who  come  in  contact  with  them  :  while  those 
of  the  latter  class  make  many  enemies  in  their  course 
through  life.  Still,  the  world  owes  as  much  to  the  lat- 
ter as  to  the  former — perhaps  a  great  deal  more. 

Mr.  Archibald  May  belonged  to  the  former  class  ;  he 
was  known  as  a  good-hearted  man.  He  uttered  the 
word  "  no"  with  great  difficulty  ;  and  was  never  known 
to  have  deliberately  said  that  to  another  which  he  knew 
would  hurt  his  feelings.  If  any  one  about  him  acted 
wrong,  he  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  wound  him 
by  calling  his  attention  to  tho  fact.  On  one  occasion,  a 
clerk  was  detected  in  purloining  money ;  but  it  was  all 


236          HKART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

hushed  up,  and  when  Mr.  May  dismissed  him,  he  gave 
him  a  certificate  of  good  character. 

"  How  could  you  do  so  ?"  asked  a  neighbor,  to 
whom  he  mentioned  the  fact. 

"  How  could  I  help  doing  it  ?  The  young  man  had 
a  chance  of  getting  a  good  place.  It  would  have  been 
cruel  in  me  to  have  refused  to  aid  him.  A  character 
was  required,  and  I  could  do  no  less  than  give  it. 
Poor,  silly  fellow !  I  am  sure  I  wish  him  well.  I 
always  liked  him." 

u  Suppose  he  robs  his  present  employer  f 

"  He  won't  do  that,  I'm  certain.  He  is  too  much 
ashamed  of  his  conduct  while  in  my  store.  It  is  a 
lesson  to  him.  And,  at  any  rate,  I  do  not  think  a 
man  should  be  hunted  down  for  a  single  fault." 

"  No :  of  course  not.  But,  when  you  endorse  a 
man's  character,  you  lead  others  to  place  confidence  in 
him ;  a  confidence  that  may  be  betrayed  under  very 
aggravated  circumstances." 

"  Better  tnat  many  suffer,  than  that  one  innocent  man 
should  be  condemned  and  cast  off." 

"  But  there  is  no  question  about  guilt  or  innocence. 
It  was  fully  proved  that  this  young  man  robbed  you." 

"Suppose  it  was.  No  doubt  the  temptation  was 
very  strong.  I  don't  lelieve  he  will  ever  be  guilty  of 
such  a  thing  again." 


GOOD-HEARTED    PKOPLK.  237 

"  You  have  the  best  evidence  in  the  world  that  he 
will,  in  the  fact  that  he  has  taken  your  money." 

"  0  no,  not  at  all.  It  doesn't  follow,  by  any  means, 
that  a  fault  1'ke  this  will  be  repeated.  He  was  terribly 
mortified  about  it.  That  has  cured  him,  I  am  certain." 

"I  wouldn't  trust  to  it." 

"  You  are  too  uncharitable,"  replied  Mr.  May.  "  For 
my  part,  I  always*look  upon  the  best  side  of  a  man's 
character.  There  is  good  in  every  one.  Some  have 
their  weaknesses — some  are  even  led  astray  at  times ; 
but  none  are  altogether  bad.  If  a  man  falls,  help  him 
up,  and  start  him  once  more  fair  in  the  world — who 
can  say  that  he  will  again  trip  ?  Not  I.  The  fact  is, 
we  are  too  hard  with  each  other.  If  you  brand  your 
fellow  with  infamy  for  one  little  act  of  indiscretion,  or, 
say  crime,  what  hope  is  there  for  him." 

"  You  go  rather  too  far,  Mr.  May,"  the  neighbor 
said,  "  in  your  condemnation  of  the  world.  No  doubt 
there  are  many  who  are  really  uncharitable  in  their 
denunciations  of  their  fellow  man  for  a  single  fault 
But, 'on  the  other  side,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  that 
there  are  just  as  many  who  are  equally  uncharitable,  in 
loosely  passing  by,  out  of  spurious  kindness,  what 
should  mark  a  man  with  just  suspicion,  and  cause  a 
withholding  of  confidence,  Look  at  the  case  now  be- 
fore us.  You  feel  unwilling  tc  keep  a  young  mar 


238          HEAET    HISTORIES   AND    LIFE   PICTURES. 

about  you,  because  he  has  betrayed  your  trust,  and  yet, 
out  of  kind  feelings,  you  give  him- a  good  character,  and 
enable  him  to  get  a  situation  where  he  may  seriously 
"prong  an  unsuspecting  man." 

"  But  I  am  sure  he  will  not  do  so." 

"  But  what  is  your  guarantee  ?" 

"The  impression  that  my  act  has  evidently  made 
upon  him.  If  I  had,  besides  hushing  up  the  whole 
matter,  kept  him  still  in  my  store,  he  might  again  have 
been  tempted.  But  the  comparatively  light  punish- 
ment of  dismissing  him  with  a  good  character,  will 
prove  a  salutary  check  upon  him." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it." 

"  I  will  believe  it,  until .  I  see  evidence  to  the  contra- 
ry. You  are  too  suspicious — too  uncharitable,  my 
good  friend.  I  am  always  inclined  to  think  the  best  of 
every  one.  Give  the  poor  fellow  another  chance  for 
his  life,  say  I." 

"  I  hope  it  may  all  turn  out  right." 

"  I  am  sure  it  will,"  returned  Mr.  May.  "  Many  and 
many  a  young  man  is  driven  to  ruin  by  having  al!  con- 
fidence withdrawn  from  him,  after  his  first  error.  De- 
pend upon  it,  such  a  course  is  not  right." 

"  I  perfectly  agree  with  you,  Mr.  May,  that  we  should 
not  utterly  condemn  and  cast  off  a  man  for  a  single 
fault.  But,  it  is  one  thing  to  bear  with  a  fault,  and 


GOOD-HEARTED    PEOPLE.  239 

encourage  a  failing  brother  man  to  better  courses,  and 
another  to  give  an  individual  whom  we  know  to  be  dis- 
honest, a  certificate  of  good  character.'' 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  not  so  sure  the  young  man,  we  are 
speaking  about  is  dishonest." 

"  Didn't  he  rob  you  ?" 

.  «  Don't  say  rob.^  That  is  too  hard  a  word.  He  did 
take  a  little  from  me ;  but  it  wasn't  much,  and  there 
were  peculiar  circumstances." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  under  other  peculiar  circumstan 
ces,  he  would  not  have  taken  much  more  from  you  P 
"I  don't  belie /e  he  would." 
"  I  wouldn't  trust  him." 

"  You  are  too  suspicious — too  uncharitable,  as  I  have 
already  said.  I  can't  be  so.  I  always  try  to  think  the 
best  of  every  one." 

Finding  that  it  was  no  use  to  talk,  the  neighbor  said 
but  little  more  on  the  subject. 

About  a  year  afterwards  the  young  man's  new  em- 
ployer, who,  on  the  faith  of  Mr.  May's  recommendation, 
ad  placed  great  confidence  in  him,  discovered  that  he 
ad  been  robbed  of  several  thousand  dollars.     The  rob- 
bery was  clearly  traced  to  this  clerk,  who  was  arrested,, 
tried,  and  sentenced  to  three  years  imprisonment  in  the 
Penitentiary. 

"It  seems  that  all  ycur  charity  was  lost  on  that 


240          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

voung  scoundrel,  Blake,"  said  the  individual  whose 
conversation  with  Mr.  May  has  just  been  given. 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  was  the  pitying  reply.  "  I  am  most 
grievously  disappointed  in  him.  I  never  believed  that 
he  would  turn  out  so  badly." 

"  You  might  have  known  it  after  he  had  swindled 
you.  A  man  who  will  steal  a  sheep,  needs  only  to  be 
assured  of  impunity,  to  rob  the  mail.  The  principle  is 
the  same.  A  rogue  is  a  rogue,  whether  it  be  for  a  pin 
or  a  pound." 

"  Well,  well — people  differ  in  these  matters.  I  nev- 
er look  at  the  worst  side  only.  How  could  Dayton 
find  it  in  his  heart  to  send  that  poor  fellow  to  the  State 
Prison !  I  wouldn't  have  done  it,  if  he  had  taken  all  I 
possess.  It  was  downright  vindictiveness  in  him." 

"It  was  simple  justice.  He  could  not  have  done 
otherwise.  Blake  had  not  only  wronged  him,  but  he 
had  violated  the  laws,  and  to  the  laws  he  was  bound  to 
give  him  up." 

"  Give  up  a  poor,  erring  young  man,  to  the  stern, 
unbending,  unfeeling  laws  !  No  one  is  bound  to  do 
that.  It  is  cruel,  and  no  one  is  under  the  necessity  of 
oeing  cruel." 

"  It  is  simply  just,  Mr.  May,  as  I  view  it.  And,  fur- 
ther, really  more  just  to  give  up  the  culprit  to  the  law 


GOOD-HEARTED    PEOPLE.  241 

he  has  knowingly  and  wilfully  violated,  than  to  let  him 
escape  its  penalties." 

Mr.  May  shook  his  head. 

"I  certainly  cannot  see  the  charity  of  locking  up  a 
young  man  for  three  or  four  years  in  prison,  and  utter- 
ly  and  forever  disgracing  him." 

"  It  is  a  great  ejdl  to  steal  ?"  said  the  neighbor. 

u  0,  certainly — a  great  sin." 

"And  the  law  made  for  its  punishment  is  just  P 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"  Do  you  think  that  it  really  injures  a  thief  to  lock 
him  up  in  prison,  and  prevent  him  from  trespassing  on 
the  property  of  his  neighbors  ?" 

"That  I  suppose  depends  upon  circumstances. 
If " 

"No,  but  my  friend,  we  must  fix  the  principle  yea  or 
nay.  The  law  that  punishes  theft  is  a  good  <aw— you 
admit  that-very  well.  If  the  law  is  good,  it  must  be 
because  its  effect  is  good.  A  thief,  will,  under  such  a 
law,  be  really  more  benefited  by  feeling  its  force  than 
in  escaping  the  penalty  annexed  to  its  infringement, 
No  distinction  can  or  ought  to  be  made.  The  man 
who,  in  a  sane  mind,  deliberately  takes  the  property  of 
another,  should  be  punished  by  the  law  which  forbids 
stealing.  It  will  have  at  least  one  good  effect,  if  none 
other,  and  that  will  be  to  make  him  less  willing  to  run 
11 


242         HEART    HISTORIES     AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

similar  risk,  and  thus  leave  to  his  neighbor  the  peacea- 
ble possession  of  his  goods." 

"  Punishment,  if  ever  administered,  should  look  to 
he  good  of  the  offender.  But,  what  good  disgracing 
and  imprisoning  a  young  man  who  has  all  along  borne 
a  fair  character,  is  going  to  have,  is  more  than  I  can 
tell.  Blake  won't  be  able  to  hold  up  his  head  among 
respectable  people  when  his  term  has  expired." 

"And  will,  in  consequence,  lose  his  power  of  injuring 
the  honest  and  unsuspecting.  He  will  be  viewed  in  his 
own  true  light,  and  be  cast  off  as  unworthy  by  a 
community  whose  confidence  he  has  most  shamefully 
abused." 

"  And  so  you  will  give  an  erring  brother  no  chance 
for  his  life  ?" 

"  0  yes.  Every  chance.  But  it  would  not  be 
kindness  to  wink  at  his  errors  and  leave  him  free  to 
continue  in  the  practice  of  them,  to  his  own  and  others' 
injury.  Having  forfeited  his  right  to  the  confidence  of 
this  community  by  trespassing  upon  it,  let  him  pay  the 
penalty  of  that  trespass.  It  will  be  to  him,  doubtless, 
a  salutary  lesson.  A  few  years  of  confinement  in  a 
prison  will  give  him  time  for  reflection  and  repentance; 
•whereas,  impunity  in  an  evil  course  could  only  have 
strengthened  his  evil  purposes.  When  he  has  paid  the 
just  penalty  of  his  crime,  let  him  go  into  another  part 


GOOD-HEARTED    PEOPLE.  248 

of  the  rountry,  and  among  strangers  b've  a  virtuous 
life,  the*-  sure  reward  of  which  is  peace." 

Mr.  May  shook  his  head  negatively,  at  these 
remarks. 

"No  one  errs  on  the  side  of  kindness,"  he  said, 
"  while  too(  many,  by  an  opposite  course,  drive  to  ruin 
those  whom  leniency  might  have  saved." 

A  short  timl  after  the  occurrence  of  this  little 
interview,  Mr.  May,  on  returning  home  one  evening, 
found  his  wife  in  much  apparent  trouble. 

"  Has  anything  gone  wrong,  Ella  ?"  he  asked. 
"Would  you  have   believed  it?"    was  Mrs.  May's 
quick  and  excited  answer.     "I  caught  Jane  in  my 
drawer  to-day,  with  a  ten  dollar  bill  in  her  hand  which 
she  had  just  taken  out  of  ray  pocket  book,  that  was 
still  open." 
"  Why,  Ella !" 

"  It  is  too  true  !  I  charged  it  at  once  upon  her,  and 
she  burst  into  tears,  and  owned  that  she  was  going  to 
take  the  money  and  keep  it." 

"  That  accounts,  then,  for  the  frequency  with  which 
you  have  missed  small  suras  of  money  for  several 
months  past." 

"  Yes.  That  is  all  plain  enough  now.  But  what 
shall  we  do?  I  cannot  think  of  keeping  Jane  any 
longer." 


244          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

•  "  Perhaps  she  will  never  attempt  such  a  thing  again, 
now  that  she  has  been  discovered." 

"I  cannot  trust  her.  I  should  never  feel  safe  a 
moment.  To  have  a  thief  about  the  house  1  Oh,  no. 
That  would  never  answer.  She  will  have  to  go." 

"  Well,  Ella,  you  will  have  to  do  what  you  think 
best ;  but  you  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  the  poor 
creature.  You  mustn't  think  of  exposing  her,  and  thus 
blasting  her  character.  It  might  drive  her  to  ruin." 

"  But,  is  it  right  for  me,  knowing  what  she  is,  to  let 
her  go  quietly  into  another  family  ?  It  is  a  serious 
matter,  husband." 

"  I  don't  know  that  you  have  anything  to  do  with 
that.  The  safest  thing,  in.  my  opinion,  is  for  you  to 
talk  seriously  to  Jane,  and  warn  her  of  the  conse- 
quences of  acts  such  as  she  has  been  guilty  of.  And 
then  let  her  go,  trusting  that  she  will  reform." 

"  But  there  is  another  fault  that  I  have  discovered 
within  a  week  or  two  past.  A  fault  that  I  suspected, 
but  was  not  sure  about.  It  is  a  very  bad  one." 

"  What  is  that,  Ella  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  she  is  kind  to  the  baby." 

«  What  2" 

"  I  have  good  reason  for  believing  that  she  is  not 
kind  to  our  dear  little  babe.  I  partly  suspected  this 
for  some  time.  More  than  once  I  have  came  suddenly 


GOOD-HEARTED    PEOPLE.  245 

upon  her,  and  found  our  sweet  pet  sobbing  as  if  his 
heart  would  break.  The  expression  in  Jane's  face  I 
could  not  exactly  understand.  Light  has  gradually 
broken  in  upon  me,  and  now  I  am  satisfied  that  she  has 
abused  him  shamefully." 

"Ella?" 

"It  is  too  true.  Since  my  suspicions  were  fully 
aroused,  I  have**asked  Hannah  about  it,  and  she,  un- 
willingly,  has  confirmed  my  own  impressions." 

"  Unwillingly  !  It  was  her  duty  to  have  let  you  know 
this  voluntarily.  Treat  my  little  angel  Charley  unkind- 
ly !  The  wretch !  She  doesn't  remain  in  this  house  a 
day  longer." 

"  So  I  have  fully  determined.  I  am  afraid  that  Jane 
has  a  wretched  disposition.  It  is  bad  enough  to  steal, 
but  to  ill-treat  a  helpless,  innocent  babe,  is  fiend-like." 

Jane  was  accordingly  dismissed. 

"Poor  creature  !"  said  Mrs.  May,  after  Jane  had  left 
the  house ;  "  I  feel  sorry  for  her.  She  is,  after  all,  the 
worst  enemy  to  herself.  I  don't  know  what  will  become 
of  her." 

"  She'll  get  a  place  somewhere." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But,  I  hope  she  won't  refer  to 
me  for  her  character.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  say, 
if  she  did." 

Mf  I  couldn't  say  any  good,  I  wouldn't  say  anj 


246         HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

harm,  Ella.  It's  rather  a  serious  matter  to  break  down 
the  character  of  a  poor  girl." 

"*  I  know  it  is ;  for  that  is  all  they  have  to  depend 
upon.  I  shall  have  to  smooth  it  over  some  how,  I 
suppose." 

**  Yes  :  put  the  best  face  you  can  upon  it.  I  have 
no  doubt  but  she  will  do  better  in  another  place." 

On  the  next  day,  sure  enough,  a  lady  called  to  ask 
about  the  character  of  Jane. 

"  How  long  has  she  been  with  you  ?"  was  one  of  the 
first  questions  asked. 

"  About  six  months,"  replied  Mrs.  May. 

"  In  the  capacity  of  nurse,  I  think  she  told  me  f 

u  Yes.     She  was  my  nurse." 

"  Was  she  faithful  ?" 

This  was  a  trying  question.  But  it  had  to  be  an- 
swered promptly,  and  it  was  so  answered. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  may  call  her  quite  a  faithful  nurse. 
She  never  refused  to  carry  my  little  boy  out;  and 
always  kept  him  very  clean." 

"  She  kept  him  nice,  did  she  ?  Well,  that  is  a 
recommendation.  And  I  want  somebody  who  will  not 
be  above  taking  my  baby  into  the  street  But  how  is 
her  temper  ?" 

"A  little  warm  sometimes.  But  then,  you  know, 
perfection  is  not  to  be  attained  any  where." 


GOOD-HEARTED    PEOPLE.  247 

M  No,  that  is  very  true.  You  think  her  a  very  good 
nurse  ?" 

"  Yes,  quite  equal  to  the  general  run." 
"  I  thank  you  very  kindly,"  said  the  lady  rising.     «  J 
hope  I  shall  find,  in  Jane,  a  nurse  to  my  liking." 

"I  certainly  hope  so,"  replied  Mrs.  May,  as  she 
attended  her  to  the  door. 

"What  do  you  think?"  said  Mrs.  May  to  her 
husband,  when  he  returned  in  the  evening.— « That 
Jane  had  the  assurance  to  send  a  lady  here  to  inquire 
about  her  character." 

"  She  is  a  pretty  cool  piece  of  goods,  I  should  say. 
But,  I  suppose  she  trusted  to  your  known  kind  feelings, 
not  to  expose  her." 

"No  doubt  that  was  the  reason.  But,  I  can  tell  her 
that  I  was  strongly  tempted  to  speak  out  the  plain 
truth.  Indeed,  I  could  hardly  contain  myself  when  the 
lady  told  me  that  she  wanted  her  to  nurse  a  little 
infant.  I  thought  of  dear  Charley,  and  how  she  had 
neglected  and  abused  him— the  wretched  creature! 
But  I  restrained  myself,  and  gave  her  as  good  a  char 
acter  as  I  could." 

"  That  was  right.     We  should  not  let  our  indignant 
feelings  govern  us  in  matters  of  this  kind.    We  caa 
never  err  on  the  side  ot  kindness." 
"  No,  I  am  sure  we  cannot." 


248         HEAKT    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

Mrs.  Campbell,  the  lady  who  had  called  upon  Mr& 
May,  felt  quite  certain  that,  in  obtaining  Jane  for  a 
nurse,  she  had  been  fortunate.  She  gave,  confidently, 
o  her  care,  a  babe  seven  months  old.  At  first,  from  a 
mother's  natural  instinct,  she  kept  her  eye  upon  Jane ; 
but  every  thing  going  on  right,  she  soon  ceased  to 
observe  her  closely.  This  was  noted  by  the  nurse,  who 
began  to  breathe  with  more  freedom.  Up  to  this  time, 
the  child  placed  in  her  charge  had  received  the  kindest 
attentions.  Now,  however,  her  natural  indifference  led 
her  to  neglect  him  in  various  little  ways,  unnoticed  by 
the  mother,  but  felt  by  the  infant.  Temptations  were 
also  thrown  in  her  way  by  the  thoughtless  exposure  of 
money  and  jewelry.  Mrs.  Campbell  supposed,  of 
course,  that  she  was  honest,  or  she  would  have  been 
notified  of  the  fact  by  Mrs.  May,  of  whom  she  had 
inquired  Jane's  character ;  and,  therefore,  never  thought 
of  being  on  her  guard  in  this  respect.  Occasionally  she 
could  not  help  thinking  that  there  ought  to  be  more 
money  in  her  purse  than  there  was.  But  she  did  not 
Buffer  this  thought  to  rise  into  a  suspicion  of  unfair 
dealing  against  any  one.  The  loss  of  a  costly  breast 
pin,  the  gift  of  a  mother  long  since  passed  into  the 
invisible  world,  next  worried  her  mind ;  but,  even  this 
did  not  cause  her  to  suspect  that  any  thing  was  wrong 
with  her  nurse. 


GOOD-HEARTED    PEOPLE.  249 

Thus  the  time  passed  on,  many  little  losses  of  money 
and  valued  articles  disturbing  and  troubling  the  mind 
of  Mrs.  Campbell,  until  it  became  necessary  to  wean 
her  babe.  This  duty  was  assigned  to  Jane,  who  took 
the  infant  to  sleep  with  her.  On  the  first  night,  it 
cried  for  several  hours — in  fact,  did  not  permit  Jane  to 
get  more  than  a  few  minutes'  sleep  at  a  time  all  night. 
Her  patience  was  tried  severely.  Sometimes  she 
would  hold  the  distressed  child  with  angry  violence  to 
her  bosom,  while  it  screamed  with  renewed  energy ; 
and  then,  finding  that  it  still  continued  to  cry,  toss  it 
from  her  upon  the  bed,  and  let  it  lie,  still  screaming, 
until  fear  lest  its  mother  should  be  tempted  to  come  to 
her  distressed  babe,  would  cause  her  again  to  take  it  to 
her  arms.  A  hard  time  had  that  poor  child  of  it  on 
that  first  night  of  its  most  painful  experience  in  the 
world.  It  was  scolded,  shaken,  and  even  whipped  by 
the  unfeeling  nurse,  until,  at  last,  worn  out  nature 
yielded,  and  sleep  threw  its  protecting  mantle  over  the 
wearied  babe. 

"  How  did  you  get  along  with  Henry  ?"  was  th« 
mother's  eager  question,  as  she  entered  Jane's  room 
soon  after  daylight. 

"  0  very  well,  ma'am,"  returned  Jane. 

"  I  heard  him  cry  dreadfully  in  the  night.     Several 
times  I  thought  I  would  come  in  and  take  him." 
11* 


250         HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  he  did  scream  once  or  twice  very  hard 
but  he  soon  gave  up,  and  has  long  slept  as  soundly  as 
you  now  see  him." 

"  Dear  little  fellow !"  murmured  the  mother  in  a 
trembling  voice.  She  stooped  down  and  kissed  him 
tenderly — tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

On  the  next  night,  Henry  screamed  again  for  several 
hours.  Jane,  had  she  felt  an  affection  for  the  child, 
and,  from  that  affection  been  led  to  soothe  it  with  ten- 
derness, might  easily  have  lulled  it  into  quiet ;  but  her 
ill-nature  disturbed  the  child.  After  worrying  with  it 
a  long  time,  she  threw  it  from  her  with  violence-,  ex- 
claiming as  she  did  so — 

"  I'll  fix  you  to-morrow  night !  There'll  be  no  more 
of  this.  They  needn't  think  I'm  going  to  worry  out 
my  life  for  their  cross-grained  brat." 

She  stopped.  For  the  babe  had  suddenly  ceased 
crying.  Lifting  it  up,  quickly,  she  perceived,  by  tbe 
light  of  the  lamp,  that  its  face  was  very  white,  and  its 
lips  blue.  In  alarm,  she  picked  it  up  and  sprang  from 
the  bed.  A  little  water  thrown  into  its  face,  soon 
revived  it.  But  the  child  did  not  cry  again,  and  socn 
fell  away  into  sleep.  For  a  long  time  Jane  sat  partly 
up  in  bed,  leaning  over  on  her  arm,  and  looking  into 
little  Henry's  face.  He  breathed  freely,  and  seemed  to 
b«  as  well  as  ever.  She  did  not  wake  until  morning. 


GOOD-HEARTED    PEOPLE.  251 

When  she  did,  she  found  the  mother  bending  over  her, 
and  gazing  earnestly  down  into  the  face  o/  her  sleeping 
babe.  The  incident  that  had  occurred  in  the  night 
glanced  through  her  mind,  and  caused  her  to  rise  up 
and  look  anxiously  at  the  child.  Its  sweet,  placid  face, 
at  once  reassured  her. 

"  He  slept  better  last  night,"  remarked  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell. 

"  0,  yes.     He  didn't  cry  any  at  all,  hardly." 

"Heaven  bless  him  !"  murmured  the  mother,  bend 
ing  over  and  kissing  him  softly. 

On  the  next  morning,  when  she  awoke,  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell felt  a  strange  uneasiness  about  her  child.  Without 
waiting  to  dress  herself,  she  went  softly  over  to  the 
room  where  Jane  slept.  It  was  only  a  little  after  day- 
light. She  found  both  the  child  and  nurse  asleep. 
There  was  something  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  room 
that  oppressed  her,  lungs,  and  something  peculiar  in 
its  odor.  Without  disturbing  Jane,  she  stood  for  seve- 
ral minutes  looking  into  the  face  of  Henry.  Something 
about  it  troubled  her.  It  was  not  so  calm  as  usual, 
nor  had  his  skin  that  white  transparency  so  peculiar  to 
a  babe. 

"  Jane,"  she  at  length  said,  lay.ng  her  hand  upon 
the  nurse. 

Jane  roused  up. 


252          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  How  did  Henry  get  along  last  night,  Jane  2" 
"  Very  well,  indeed,  ina'am  ;  he  did  not  cry  at  all." 
"  Do  you  think  he  looks  well  ?" 
Jane  turned  her  eyes  to  the  face  of  the  child,  and 
egarded  it  for  some  time. 

O 

"  0,  ye?,  ma'am,  he  looks  very  well ;  he  has  been 
sleeping  sound  all  night," 

Thus  assured,  Mrs.  Campbell  regarded  Henry  for  a 
few  minutes  longer,  and  then  left  the  room.  But  her 
heart  was  not  at  ease.  There  was  a  weight  upon  it, 
and  it  labored  in  its  office  heavily. 

"  Still  asleep,'"  she  said,  about  an  hour  after,  coming 
into  Jane's  room.  "  It  is  not  usual  for  him  to  sleep  so 
long  in  the  morning." 

Jane  turned  away  from  the  penetrating  glance  of  the 
mother,  and  remarked,  indifferently : 

"  He  has  been  worried  out  for  the  last  two  nights. 
That  is  the  reason,  I  suppose." 

Mrs.  Campbell  said  no  more,  but  lifted  the  child  in  her 
arms,  and  carried  it  to  her  own  chamber.  There  she 
endeavored  to  awaken  it,  but,  to  her  alarm,  she  found 
that  it  still  slept  heavily  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts. 

Running  down  into  the  parlor  with  it,  where  her  hus- 
band sat  reading  the  morning  papers,  she  exclaimed : 

u  Oh,  Henry !  I'm  afraid  that  Jane  has  been  giving 
this  child  something  to  make  him  sleep.  See !  I 


GOOD-HEARTED    PEOPLE.  253 

eannot  awake    him.      Something    is    wrong,    depend 
upon  it  P 

Mr.   Campbell   took   the  babe  and   endeavored   to 
arouse  him,  but  without  effect. 

"  Call  her  down  here,"  he  then  said,  in  a  quick,  reso- 
lute voice. 

Jane  was  called  down. 

"  What  have  you  given  this  child  ?"  asked  Mr.  Camp- 
bell, peremptorily. 

"Nothing,"  was  the  positive  answer.  "What  could 
I  have  given  him  ?" 
"  Call  the  waiter." 

Jane  left  the  room,  and  in  a  moment  after  the  waiter 
entered. 

"Go  for  Doctor  B-  -  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  say 
to  him  I  must  see  him  immediately." 

The  waiter  left  the  house  in  great  haste.     In  about 
twenty  minutes  Dr.  B arrived. 

"Is  there  any  thing  wrong  about  this  child ?"  Mr. 
Campbell  asked,  placing  little  Henry  in  the  doctor's  arms' 

"  There  is,"  was  replied,  after  the  lapse  of  about  half 
a  minute.  «  What  have  you  been  giving  it." 

"  Nothing.     But  we  are  afraid  the  nuree  has." 

"  Somebody  has  been  giving  it  a  powerful  anodyne, 
that  is  certain.  This  is  no  natural  sleep.  Where  ia 
the  nurse  ?  let  me  see  her." 


254         HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

Jane  was  sent  for,  but  word  was  soon  brought  that 
she  was  not  to  be  found.  She  had,  in  fact,  bundled  up 
her  clothes,  and  hastily  and  quietly  left  the  house. 
This  confirmed  the  worst  fears  of  both  parents  and 
>hysician.  But,  if  any  doubt  remained,  a  vial  of  lauda- 
num and  a  spoon,  found  in  the  washstand  drawer 
in  Jane's  room,  dispelled  it. 

The  most  prompt  and  active  treatment  was  resorted 

to  by  Doctor  B in  the  hope  of  saving  the  child. 

But  his  anxious  efforts  were  in  vain.  The  deadly  nar- 
cotic had  taken  entire  possession  of  the  whole  system  ; 
had,  in  fact,  usurped  the  seat  of  life,  and  was  poisoning 
its  very  fountain.  At  day  dawn  on  the  next  morning 
the  flickering  lamp  went  out,  and  the  sad  parents 
looked  their  last  look  upon  their  living  child. 

"  I  have  heard  most  dreadful  news,"  Mrs.  May  said 
to  her  husband,  on  his  return  home  that  day. 

"  You  have !    What  is  it  ?" 
.    "  Jane  has  poisoned  Mrs.  Campbell's  child  !" 

"  Ella  !"  and  Mr.  May  started  from  his  chair. 

"  It  is  true.     She  had  it  to  wean,  and  gave  it  such  a 
dose  of  laudanum,  that  it  died." 

"  Dreadful !     What  have  they  done  with  her  ?" 

"  She  can't  be  found,  I  am  told*." 

"  You  recommended  her  to  Mrs.  Campbell." 


GOOD-HEARTED    PEOPLE.  255 

"  Yes.  But  I  didn't  believe  she  was  wicked  enough 
for  that." 

"  Though  it  is  true  she  ill-treated  little  Charley,  and 
ye  knew  it.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  ever  forgive  your- 
elf.  I  am  sure  that  I  don't  feel  like  ever  again  look- 
ing Mr.  Campbell  in  the  face." 

"  But,  Mr.  May,  you  know  very  well  that  you  didn't 
want  me  to  say  any  thing  against  Jane  to  hurt  her 
character." 

"  True.  And  it  is  hard  to  injure  a  poor  fellow  crea- 
ture by  blazoning  her  faults  about.  But  I  had  no  idea 
that- Jane  was  such  a  wretch!" 

"  We  knew  that  she  would  steal,  and  that  she  was 
unkind  to  children  ;  and  yet,  we  agreed  to  recommend 
her  to  Mrs.  Campbell." 

"  But  it  was  purely  out  of  kind  feelings  for  the  girl, 
Ella." 

"Yes.  But  is  that  genuine  kindness?  Is  it  real 
charity  ?  I  fear  not." 

Mr.  May  was  silent.  The  questions  probed  him  to 
the  quick.  Let  every  one  who  is  good-hearted  in  the 
sense  that  Mr.  May  was,  ask  seriously  the  same  ques- 
tions. 


SLOW  AND  SURE. 


**  Yoi  D  better  take  the  whole  case.  These  goods  will 
sell  as  fast  as  they  can  be  measured  off." 

The  young  man  to  whom  this  was  said  by  the  polite 
and  active  partner  in  a  certain  jobbing  house  in  Phila- 
delphia, shook  his  head  and  replied  firmly — 

"  No,  Mr.  Johnson.  Three  pieces  are  enough  for  my 
sales.  If  they  go  off  quickly,  I  can  easily  get  more." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  Mr.  Watson,"  replied  the 
jobber.  "  I  shall  be  greatly  mistaken  if  we  have  a  case 
of  these  goods  left  by  the  end  of  a  week.  Every  on 
who  looks  at  them,  buys.  Miller  bought  two  whole 
cases  this  morning.  In  the  origina  packages,  we  sell 
them  at  a  half  cent  per  yard  lower  tLan  by  the  piece." 

"  If  they  are  gone,  I  can  buy  something  else,"  said 
the  cautious  purchaser. 

"  Then  you  won't  let  me  sell  you  a  case  ?" 


SLOW    AND    SURE.  257 

«  No,  sir." 

"  You  buy  too  cautiously,"  said  Johnson. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  I  know  so.  The  fact  is,  I  can  sell  some  of  your 
neighbors  as  much  in  an  hour  as  I  can  sell  you  in  a 
week.  We  jobbers  would  starve  if  there  were  no  more 
active  men  in  th«^trade  than  you  are,  friend  Watson." 

Watson  smiled  in  a  quiet,  self-satisfied  way  as  he 
replied — 

"  The  number  of  wholesale  dealers  might  be  dimin- 
ished ;  but  failures  among  them  would  be  of  less  fre- 
quent occurrence.  Slow  and  sure,  is  my  motto." 

u  Slow  and  sure  don't  make  much  headway  in  these 
times.  Enterprise  is  the  word.  A  man  has  to  ba 
swift-footed  to  keep  up  with  the  general  movement." 

"  I  don't  expect  to  get  rich  in  a  day,"  said  Watson. 

"  You'll  hardly  be  disappointed  in  your  expectation," 
remarked  Johnson,  a  little  sarcastically.  His  customer 
did  not  notice  the  feeling  his  tones  expressed,  but  went 
on  to  select  a  piece  or  two  of  goods,  here  and  there 
from  various  packages,  as  the  styles  happened  to  suit 
him. 

"  Five  per  cent,  off  for  cash,  I  suppose,"  said  Wat- 
son, after  completing  his  purchase. 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  replied  the  dealer.  "  Do  you  wish 
to  cash  the  bill  3" 


258          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  Yes  ;  I  wish  to  do  a  cash  business  as  far  as  I  can. 
It  is  rather  slow  work  at  first ;  but  it  is  safest,  and  sure 
to  come  out  right  in  the  end." 

"  You're  behind  the  times,  Watson,"  said  Johnson, 
shaking  his  head.  "  Tell  me — who  can  do  the  most 
profitable  business,  a  man  with  a  capital  of  five  thou- 
sand dollars,  or  a  man  with  twenty  thousand  ?" 

"  The  latter,  of  course." 

"  Very  well.  Don't  you  understand  that  credit  is 
capital  ?M 

"  It  isn't  cash  capital." 

"  What  is  the  difference,  pray,  between  the  profit  on 
ten  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  goods  purchased  on  time 
or  purchased  for  cash  ?" 

"  Just  five  hundred  dollars,"  said  Watson. 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out  ?"  The  jobber  did  not 
see  the  meaning  of  his  customer. 

"You  discount  five  per  cent,  for  cash,  don't  you  ?" 
replied  Watson,  smiling. 

"  True.  But,  if  you  don't  happen  to  have  the  ten 
thousand  dollars  cash,  at  the  time  you  wish  to  make  a 
purchase,  don't  you  see  what  an  advantage  credit  gives 
you  ?  Estimate  the  profit  at  twenty  per  cent,  on  a 
cash  purchase,  and  your  credit  enables  you  to  make 
fifteen  per  cent  where  you  would  have  made  nothing." 

"  All  very  good  theory,"  said  Watson.     "  It  look* 


SLOW    AND    SURE.  269 

beautiful  on  paper.     Thousands  have  figured  themselves 
out  rich   in  this  way,  but,  alas !  discovered  themselves 
poor  in  the  end.     If  all  would  work  just  right — if  the 
thousands  of  dollars  of  goods  bought  on  credit  would 
invariably  sell  at  good  profit  and  in  time  to  meet  the 
purchase  notes,  then  your  credit  business  would  be  first 
rate.     But,  my  litlje  observation  tells  me  that  this  isn't 
always  the  case — that  your  large  credit  men  are  forever 
on  the  street,  money  hunting,  instead  of  in  their  stores 
looking  after  their  business.     Instead  of  getting  dis- 
counts that  add  to  their  profits,  they  are  constantly  suf- 
fering  discounts    of  the   other    kind ;  and,   too   often, 
these,  and  the  accumulating  stock  of  unsaleable  goods 
— the  consequence  of  credit  temptations  in  purchasing 
—reduce  the  fifteen  per  cent,  you  speak  of  down  to 
ten,  and  even  five  per  cent.     A  large  business  makes 
large   store-expenses;   and  these   eat   away  a   serious 
amount  of  small  profits  on   large   sales.     Better  sell 
twenty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  goods  at  twenty  per 
cent  profit,  than  eighty  thousand  at  five  per  cent    You 
can  do  it  with  less  labor,  less  anxiety,  and  at  less  cost 
for  rent  and  clerk  hire.     At  least,  Mr.  Johnson,  this  is 
my  mode  of  reasoning." 

"  Well,  plod  along,"  replied  Johnson.  "  Little  boats 
keep  near  the  shore.  But,  let  me  tell  you,  my  young 
friend,  your  mind  is  rather  too  limited  for  a  merchant 


260         HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

of  this  day.  There  is  Mortimer,  who  began  business 
about  the  time  you  did.  How  much  do  you  think  he 
has  made  by  a  good  credit  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"  Fifty  thousand  dollars." 

"  And  by  the  next  turn  of  fortune's  wheel,  may  lose 
it  all." 

"  Not  he.  Mortimer,  though  young,  is  too  shrewd  a 
merchant  for  that.  Do  you  know  that  he  made  ten 
thousand  by  the  late  rise  in  cotton ;  and  all  without 
touching  a  dollar  in  his  business  ?" 

"  I  heard  something  of  it.  But,  suppose  prices  had 
receded  instead  of  advancing  ?  What  of  this  good 
credit,  then  ?" 

"  You're  too  timid — too  prudent,  Watson,"  said  the 
merchant,  "  and  will  be  left  behind  in  the  race  for  pros- 
perity by  men  of  half  your  ability." 

"  No  matter ;  I  will  be  content,"  was  the  reply  of 
Watson. 

It  happened,  a  short  time  after  this  little  interchange 
of  views  on  business  mattei-s,  that  Watson  met  the 
daughter  of  Mr.  Johnson  in  a  company  where  he 
chanced  to  be.  She  was  an  accomplished  and  inte- 
resting young  woman,  and  pleased  Watson  particular- 
ly ;  and  it  is  but  truth  to  say,  that  she  was  squally  well 
pleased  with  him. 


SLOW    AND    SURE.  261 

The  father,  who  was  present,  saw,  w'ih  a  slight  feel- 
ing of  disapprobation,  the  lively  conversation  that 
passed  between  the  young  man  and  his  daughter ;  and 
when  an  occasion  offered,  a  day  or  two  afterwards, 
made  it  a  point  to  refer  to  him  in  a  way  to  give  the 
impression  that  he  held  him  in  light  estimation. 
Flora,  that  was  th^  daughter's  name,  did  not  appear  to 
notice  his  remark.  One  evening,  not  long  after  this,  as 
the  family  of  Mr.  Johnson  were  about  leaving  the  tea- 
table,  where  they  had  remained  later  than  usual,  a 
domestic  announced  that  there  was  a  gentleman  in  the 
parlor. 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  inquired  Flora. 

"  Mr.  Mortimer,"  was  answered. 

An  expression  of  dislike  came  into  the  face  of  Flora, 
as  she  said — 

"  He  didn't  ask  for  me  ?" 

"  Yes,"  was  the  servant's  reply. 

"  Tell  him  that  I'm  engaged,  Nancy." 

"No,  no!"  said  Mr.  Johnson,  quickly.  "Thia 
#ould  not  be  right.  Are  yo'u  engaged  ?" 

"  That  means,  father,  that  I  don't  wish  to  see  him ; 
and  he  will  so  understand  me." 

"  Don't  wish  to  see  him  ?     Why  not  P 

"  Because  I  don't  like  him." 


262          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  Don't  like  him  ?"  Mr.  Johnson's  manner  waa 
slightly  impatient.  "  Perhaps  you  don't  know  him." 

The  way  in  which  her  father  spoke,  rather  embar- 
rassed Flora.  She  cast  down  her  eye  and  stood  for  a 
few  moments. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Mortimer  that  I  will  see  him  in  a  little 
while,"  she  then  said,  and,  as  the  domestic  retired  to 
give  the  answer,  she  ascended  to  her  chamber  to  make 
some  slight  additions  to  her  toilet. 

To  meet  the  young  man  by  constraint,  as  it  were, 
was  only  to  increase  in  Flora's  mind  the  dislike  she  had 
expressed.  So  coldly  and  formally  was  Mortimer 
received,  that  he  found  his  visit  rather  unpleasant  than 
agreeable,  and  retired,  after  sitting  an  hour,  somewhat 
puzzled  as  to  the  real  estimation  in  which  he  was  held 
by  the  lady,  for  whom  he  felt  more  than  a  slight  pref- 
erence. 

Mr.  Johnson  was  very  much  inclined  to  estimate 
others  by  a  money-standard  of  valuation.  A  man  was 
a  man,  in  his  eyes,  when  he  possessed  those  qualities  of 
mind  that  would  enable  him  to  make  his  way  in  the 
world — in  other  words,  to  get  rich.  It  was  this  ability 
in  Mortimej  that  elevated  him  in  his  regard,  and  pro- 
duced a  feeling  of  pleasure  when  he  saw  him  inclined 
to  pay  attention  to  his  danghter.  And  it  was  the  ap- 


SLOW   AND   SURK.  263 

parent  want  of  this  ability  in  Watson,  that  caused  him 
to  be  lightly  esteemed. 

Men  like  Mr.  Johnson  are  never  very  wise  in  their 
estimates  of  character ;  nor  do  they  usually  adopt  thf 
best  means  of  attaining  their  ends  when  they  meet 
with  opposition.     This  was  illustrated  in  the  present 
case.     Mortimer  was  frequently  referred  to  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Flora,  and"~praised  in  the  highest  terms  ;  while 
the  bare  mention  of  Watson's  name  was  sure  to  occa- 
sion a  series  of  disparaging  remarks.     The  effect  was 
just  the  opposite  of  what  was  intended.     The  more 
ier  father  said  in  favor  of  the  thrifty  young  merchant, 
the  stronger  was  the  repugnance  felt  towards  him  by 
Flora ;  and  the  more  he  had  to  say  against  Watson, 
the  better  she  liked  him.     This  went  on  until  there 
came  a  formal  application  from  Mortimer  for  the  hand 
of  Flora.     It   was   made   to   Mr.  Johnson   first,  who 
replied  to  the  young  man   that  if  he  could  win  the 
maiden's  favor,  he  had  his  full  approval.     But  to  win 
the  maiden's  favor  was  not  so  easy  a  task,  as  the  young 
man   soon  found.     His  offered  hand  was  firmly  de 
dined. 

"  Am  I  to  consider  your  present  decision  as  final  ?" 
said  the  young  man,  in  surprise  and  disappointment 
"  I  wish  you  to  do  so,  Mr.  Mortimer,"  said  Flora. 


264         HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  Your  father  approves  my  suit,"  said  he.  "  I  have 
his  full  consent  to  make  you  this  offer  of  my  hand." 

"  I  cannot  but  feel  flattered  at  your  preference."  re- 
turned Flora  ;  "  but,  to  accept  your  offer,  would  not  be 
just  either  to  you  or  myself.  I,  therefore,  wish  you  to 
understand  me  as  being  entirely  in  earnest." 

This  closed  the  interview  and  definitely  settled  the 
question.  When  Mr.  Johnson  learned  that  the  offer 
of  Mortimer  had  been  declined,  he  was  very  angry  with 
his  daughter,  and,  in  the  passionate  excitement  of  his 
feelings,  committed  a  piece  of  folly  for  which  he  felt  an 
immediate  sense  of  shame  and  regret. 

The  interview  between  Mr.  Mortimer  and  Flora  took 
place  during  the  afternoon,  and  Mr.  Johnson  learned 
the  result  from  a  note  received  from  the  disappointed 
young  man,  just  as  he  was  about  leaving  his  store  to 
return  home.  Flora  did  not  join  the  family  at  the  tea- 
table,  on  that  evening,  for  her  mind  was  a  good  deal 
disturbed,  and  she  wished  to  regain  her  calmness  and 
self-possession  before  meeting  her  father. 

Mr.  Johnson  was  sitting  in  a  moody  and  angry  state 
of  mind  about  an  hour  after  supper,  when  a  domestic 
came  into  the  room  and  said  that  Mr.  Watson  was  in 
the  parlor. 

"  What  does  he  want  here  ?"  asked  Mr.  Johnson,  in 
&  rough,  excited  voice. 


SLOW    AND    8XTRE.  285 

"  He  asked  for  Miss  Flora,"  returned  the  servant. 

«  Where  is  she  ?" 

"  In  her  room." 

"  Well,  let  her  stay  there.     I'll  see  him  myself." 

And  without  taking  time  for  reflection,  Mr.  Johnson 
descended  to  the  parlor. 

"  Mr.  Watson,"  said  he,  coldly,  as  the  young  man 
arose  and  advanced  towards  him. 

His  manner  caused  the  visitor  to  pause,  and  let  the 
hand  he  had  extended  fall  to  his  side. 

"  Well,  what  is  your  wish  ?"  asked  Mr.  Johnson. 
He  looked  with  knit  brows  into  Watson's  face. 

"  I  have  called  to  see  your  daughter  Flora,"  retu.ned 
the  young  man,  calmly. 

"  Then,  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  your  call  is 
not  agreeable,"  said  the  father  of  the  young  lady,  with 
great  rudeness  of  manner. 

"  Not  agreeable  to  whom  ?"  asked  Watson,  mani- 
festing no  excitement. 

**  Not  agreeable  to  me,"  replied  Mr.  Johnson.     "  Nor 
greeable  to  any  one  in  this  house." 

"  Do  you  speak  for  your  daughter  ?"  inquired  tha 
young  man. 

"  I  have  a  right  to  speak  for  her,  if  any  one  has,'1 
was  the  evasive  answer. 
12 


286          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

Watson  bowed  respectfully,  and,  without  a  word 
more,  retired  from  the  house. 

The  calm  dignity  with  which  he  had  received  the 
rough  treatment  of  Mr.  Johnson,  rebuked  the  latter, 
and  added  a  feeling  of  shame  to  his  other  causes  of 
mental  disquietude. 

On  the  next  day  Flora  received  a  letter  from  Watson, 
in  part  in  these  words-r- 

"  I  called,  last  evening,  but  was  not  so  fortunate  as  to 
see  you.  Your  father  met  me  in  the  parlor,  and  on 
learning  that  my  visit  was  to  you,  desired  me  not  to 
come  again.  This  circumstance  makes  it  imperative 
on  me  to  declare  what  might  have  been  sometime 
longer  delayed — my  sincere  regard  for  you.  If  you 
feel  towards  me  as  your  father  does,  then  I  have  not  a 
word  more  to  say ;  but  I  do  not  believe  this,  and,  there- 
fore, I  cannot  let  his  disapproval,  in  a  matter  so 
intimately  concerning  my  happiness,  and  it  may  be 
yours,  influence  me  to  the  formation  of  a  hasty  decision. 
I  deeply  regret  your  father's  state  of  feeling.  His  full 
approval  of  my  suit,  next  to  yours,  I  feel  to  be  in  every 
way  desirable. 

"  But,  why  need  I  multiply  words  ?  Again,  I  declare 
that  I  fee*  for  you  a  sincere  affection.  If  you  can 
return  this,  say  so  with  as  little  delay  as  possible  ;  and 
if  you  cannot,  be  equally  frank  with  me." 


SLOW    AND    8URS.  261 

Watson  did  not  err  in  his  belief  that  Flora  recipro- 
cated his  tender  sentiments ;  nor  was  he  kept  long  in 
suspense.  She  made  an  early  reply,  avowing  her  own 
attachment,  but  urging  him.  for  her  sake,  to  do  all  in  his 
power  to  overcome  her  father's  prejudices.  But  this 
was  no  easy  task.  In  the  end,  however,  Mr.  Johnson, 
who  saw,  too  "plainly,  that  opposition  on  his  part  would 
be  of  no  avail,  yielded  a  kind  of  forced  consent  that  the 
plodding,  behind-the-age  young  merchant,  should  lead 
Flora  to  the  altar.  That  his  daughter  should  be  content 
with  such  a  man,  was  to  him  a  source  of  deep  mortifica- 
tion. His  own  expectations  in  regard  to  her  had  been 
of  a  far  higher  character. 

"  He'll  never  set  the  world  on  fire  ;"  "  A  man  of  no 
enterprise ;"  "  A  dull  plodder ;"  with  similar  allusion's 
to  his  son-in-law,  were  overheard  by  Mr.  Johnson  on 
the  night  of  the  wedding  party,  and  added  no  little  to 
the  ill-concealed  chagrin  from  which  he  suffered.  They 
were  made  by  individuals  who  belonged  to  the  new 
school  of  business  men,  of  whom  Mortimer  was  a 
representative.  He,  too,  was  present.  His  disappoint- 
ment  in  not  obtaining  the  hand  of  Flora,  had  been 
solaced  in  the  favor  of  one  whose  social  standing  and 
money-value  was  regarded  as  considerably  above  that 
of  the  maiden  who  had  declined  the.  offer  of  his  hand. 
He  saw  Flora  given  to  another  without  a  feeling  of  regret, 


268          HEART    HISTORIES     AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

A  few  months  afterwards,  be  married  the  daughter 
of  a  gentleman  who  considered  himself  fortunate  in 
obtaining  a  son-in-law  that  promised  to  be  one  of  the 
richest  men  in  the  city. 

It  was  with  a  very  poor  grace  that  Mr.  Johnson  bore 
his  disappointment ;  so  poor,  that  he  scarcely  treated 
the  husband  of  his  daughter  with  becoming  respect. 
To  add  to  his  uncomfortable  feelings  by  contrast, 
Mortimer  built  himself  a  splendid  dwelling  almost 
beside  the  modest  residence  of  Mr.  Watson,  and  after 
furnishing  it  in  the  most  costly  and  elegant  style,  gave 
a  grand  entertainment.  Invitations  to  this  were  not 
extended  to  either  Mr.  Johnson's  family  or  to  that  of 
his  son-in-law — an  omission  that  was  particularly  gall- 
ing to  the  former. 

A  few  weeks  subsequent  to  this,  Mr.  Johnson  stood 
beside  Mr.  Watson  in  an  auction  room.  To  the  latter 
a  sample  of  new  goods,  just  introduced,  was  knocked 
down,  and  when  asked  by  the  auctioneer  how  many 
cases  he  would  take,  he  replied  "  Two." 

"  Say  ten,"  whitepered  Mr.  Johnson  in  his  ear. 

"Two  cases  are  enough  for  my  sales,"  quietly  re- 
turned the  young  man. 

"  But  they're  a  great  bargain.  You  can  sell  their 
at  an  advance,"  urged  Mr.  Johnson 


SLOW    AND    SURE.  269 

"Perhaps  so.  But  I'd  rather  not  go  out  of  my 
regular  line  of  business." 

By  this  time,  the  auctioneer's  repeated  question  of 
"Who'll  take  another  case?"  had  been  responded  t» 
by  half  a  dozen  voices,  and  the  lot  of  goods  was  gone. 

"  You're  too  prudent,"  said  Mr.  Johnson,  with  some 
impatience  in  his  manner. 

"No,"  replied  the  young  man,  with  his  usual  calm 
tone  and  quiet  smile.  "  Slow  and  sure — that  is  my 
motto.  I  only  buy  the  quantity  of  an  article  that  I  am 
pretty  sure  will  sell.  Then  I  get  a  certain  profit,  and 
am  not  troubled  with  paying  for  goods  that  are  lying 
on  my  shelves  and  depreciating  in  value  daily." 

"  But  these  wouldn't  have  lain  on  your  shelves. 
You  could  have  sold  them  at  a  quarter  of  a  cent 
advance  to-morrow,  and  thus  cleared  sixty  or  seventy 
dollars." 

"  That  is  mere  speculation." 

"  Call  it  what  you  will ;  it  makes  no  difference.  The 
chance  of  making  a  good  operation  was  before  you,  and 
you  did  not  improve  it.  You  will  never  get  along  at 
your  snail's  pace." 

There  was,  in  the  voice  of  Mr.  Johixon,  a  tone  of 
contempt  that  stung  Watson  more  than  any  previous 
remark  or  action  of  his  father-in-law.  Thrown,  for  a 
moment,  off  his  guard,  he  replied  with  some  warmth — 


270          HEAKT    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  You  may  be  sure  of  one  thing,  at  least." 

"What?" 

"  That  I  shall  never  embarrass  you  with  any  of  mj 
fine  operations." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  asked  Mr.  Johnson. 

"  Time  will  explain  the  remark,"  replied  Watson, 
turning  away,  and  retiring  from  the  auction  room. 

A  coolness  of  some  months  was  the  consequence  of 
this  little  interview. 

Time  proves  all  things.  At  the  end  of  fifteen  yearfj, 
Mortimer,  who  had  gone  on  in  the  way  he  had  begun, 
was  reputed  to  be  worth  two  hundred  thousand  dollars. 
Every  thing  he  touched  turned  to  money ;  at  least,  so 
it  appeared.  Ills  whole  conversation  was  touching 
handsome  operations  in  trade ;  and  not  a  day  passed 
in  which  he  had  not  some  story  of  gains  to  tell.  Yet, 
with  all  his  heavy  accumulations,  he  was  always  en- 
gaged in  money  raising,  and  his  line  of  discounts  was 
enormous.  Such  a  thing  as  proper  attention  to  busi- 
ness was  almost  out  of  the  question,  for  nearly  his 
<vhole  time  was  taken  up  in  financiering — and  some  of 
his  financial  schemes  were  on  a  pretty  grand  scale. 
Watson,  on  the  other  hand,  had  kept  plodding  along  in 
the  old  way,  making  his  regular  business  purchases,  and 
gradually  extending  his  operations,  as  his  profits, 


SLOW    AND    SURK.  27 1 

changing  into  capital^  enabled  him  to  do  so.  He  was 
not  anxious  to  get  rich  fast ;  at  least,  not  so  anxious  as 
to  suffer  himself  to  be  tempted  from  a  safe  and 
prudent  course  ;  and  was,  therefore,  content  to  do  well. 
By  this  time,  his  father-in-law  began  to  understand 
him  a  little  better  than  at  first,  and  to  appreciate  him 
more  highly^  On  more  than  one  occasion,  he  had 
been  in  want  of  a  few  thousand  dollars  in  an  emergency, 
when  the  check  of  Watson  promptly  supplied  the 
pressing  need. 

As  to  the  real  ability  of  Watson,  few  were  apprised, 
for  he  never  made  a  display  for  the  sake  of  establishing 
a  credit.  But  it  was  known  to  some,  that  he  generally 
had  a  comfortable  balance  in  the  bank,  and  to  others 
that  he  never  exchanged  notes,  nor  asked  an  endorser 
on  his  business  paper.  He  always  purchased  for  cash, 
and  thus  obtained  his  goods  from  five  to  seven  per 
cent  cheaper  than  his  neighbors ;  and  rarely  put  his 
business  paper  in  bank  for  discount  at  a  longer  date 
than  sixty  days.  Under  this  system,  his  profits  were, 
isually,  ten  per  cent,  more  than  the  profits  of  many 
who  were  engaged  in  the  same  branch  of  trade.  His 
credit  was  so  good,  that  the  bank  where  he  kept  his 
account  readily  gave  him  all  the  money  he  asked  on 
his  regular  paper,  without  requiring  other  endorsements; 
while  many  of  his  more  dashing  neighbors,  who  were 


272          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

doing  half  as  much  business  again,  were  often  obliged 
to  go  upon  the  street  to  raise  money  at  from  one  to 
two  per  cent,  a  month.  Moreover,  as  he  was  always 
to  be  found  at  his  store,  and  ready  to  give  his  personal 
attention  to  customers,  he  was  able  to  make  his  own 
discriminations  and  to  form  his  own  estimates  of  men 
• — and  these  were  generally  correct.  The  result  of  this 
•was,  that  he  gradually  attracted  a  class  of  dealers  who 
were  substantial  men ;  and,  in  consequence,  was  little 
troubled  with  bad  sales. 

Up  to  this  time,  there  had  been  but  few  changes  in 
the  external  domestic  arrangements  of  Mr.  Watson. 
He  had  moved  twice,  and,  each  time,  into  a  larger 
house.  His  increasing  family  made  this  necessary. 
But,  while  all  was  comfortable  and  even  elegant  in  his 
dwelling,  there  was  no  display  whatever. 

One  day,  about  this  period,  as  Watson  was  walking 
with  his  father-in-law,  they  both  paused  to  look  at  a 
handsome  house  that  was  going  up  in  a  fashionable 
part  of  Walnut  street.     By  the  side  of  it  was  a  larg 
building  lot. 

"  I  have  about  made  up  my  mind  to  buy  this  lot," 
remarked  Watson. 

"  You  ?"     Mr.  Johnson  spoke  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"  Yes,.  The  price  is  ten  thousand  dollars.  Rather 
nigh  ;  but  I  like  the  location." 


BLOW    AND    SURE.  273 

"  What  will  you  do  with  it  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Johnson 

"  Build  upon  it." 

u  As  an  investment  ?" 

"  No.     I  want  a  dwelling  for  myself." 

"  Indeed  !  I  was  not  aware  that  you  had  any  such 
intentions.'' 

M  Oh,  yes."* I  have  always  intended  to  build  a  house 
so  soon  as  I  felt  able  to  do  it  according  to  m^  .wn 
fancy." 

Mr.  Johnson  felt  a  good  deal  surprised  at  this.  No 
more  was  said,  and  the  two  men  walked  on. 

"  How's  this  ?  For  sale  !"  said  Mr.  Johnson.  They 
were  opposite  the  elegant  dwelling  of  Mr.  Mortimer, 
upon  which  was  posted  a  hand-bill  setting  forth  that 
the  property  was  for  sale. 

"  So  it  seems,"  was  Watson's  quiet  answer. 

"  Why  should  he  sell  out  ?"  added  Mr.  Johnson. 
"  Perhaps  he  is  going  to  Europe  to  make  a  tour  with 
his  family,"  he  suggested. 

"  It  is  more  probable,"  said  Watson,  "  that  he  has 
got  to  the  end  of  his  rope." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  remark  ?" 

"  Is  obliged  to  sell  in  order  to  save  himself." 

"  Oh,  no  !     Mortimer  is  rich." 

u  So  it  is  said.  But  I  never  call  a  man  rich  whose 
12* 


274          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

paper  is  floating  about  by  thousands  on  the  street  seek- 
ing purchasers  at  two  per  cent,  a  month." 

Just  then  the  carriage  of  Mortimer  drove  up  to  his 
loor,  and  Mrs.  Mortimer  descended  to  the  pavement 
nd  passed  into  the  house.  Her  face  was  pale,  and  liad 
a  look  of  deep  distress.  It  was  several  years  since  Mr. 
Johnson  remembered  to  have  seen  her,  and  he  was 
alrr,  _„  startled  at  the  painful  change  which  had  taken 
place. 

A  little  while  afterwards  he  looked  upon  the  cheerful, 
smiling  face  of  his  daughter  Flora,  and  there  arose  in 
his  heart,  almost  involuntarily,  an  emotion  of  thankful- 
ness that  she  was  not  the  wife  of  Mortimer.  Could  he 
have  seen  what  passed  a  few  hours  afterwards,  in  the 
dwelling  of  the  latter,  he  would  have  been  more  thank- 
ful than  ever. 

It  was  after  eleven  o'clock  when  Mortimer  returned 
home  that  night.  He  had  been  away  since  morning. 
It  was  rarely  that  he  dined  with  his  family,  but  usually 
came  home  early  in  the  evening.  Since  seven  o'clock, 
he  tea-table  had  been  standing  in  the  floor,  awaiting 
nis  return.  At  eight  o'clock,  as  he  was  still  absent, 
supper  was  served  to  the  children,  who,  soon  after, 
retired  for  the  night.  It  was  after  eleven  o'clock  as  we 
havo  said,  before  Mortimer  returned.  His  face  was 
pale  and  haggard.  He  entered  quietly,  by  means  of 


SLOW    AND   SURE.  275 

liis  night-key,  and  went  noiselessly  up  to  his  chamber, 
lie  found  his  wife  lying  across  the  bed,  where,  wearied 
with  watching,  she  had  thrown  herself  and  fallen 
asleep.  For  a  few  moments  he  stood  looking  at  her, 
with  a  face  iu  which  agony  and  affection  were  blended. 
Then  he  clasped  his  hands  suddenly  against  his  tem- 
ples, and  groaned  aloud.  That  groan  penetrated  the 
ears  of  his  sleeping  wife,  who  started  up  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  alarm,  as  her  eyes  saw  the  gesture  and 
expression  of  her  husband. 

"  Oh,  Ilenry  !  what  is  the  matter  ?  Where  have 
you  been  ?  Why  do  you  look  so  ?"  she  eagerly  in- 
quired. 

Mortimer  did  not  reply  ;  but  continued  standing  like 
a  statue  of  despair. 

"  Henry  !  Henry  !"  cried  his  wife,  springing  towards 
him,  and  laying  her  hands  upon  his  arm.  "  Dear 
husband  !  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Ruined  !  Ruined  I"  now  came  hoarsely  from  the 
lips  of  Mortimer,  and,  with  another  deep  groan,  he 
threw  himself  on  a  sofa,  and  wrung  his  hands  in 
uncontrollable  anguish. 

"  Oh,  Henry !  speak  !  What  docs  this  mean  ?"  said 
his  wife,  the  tears  now  gushing  from  her  eyes.  "  Tell 
lae  what  has  happened.'" 

But,   "  Ruined  !     Ruined !"   was   all   the  wretched 


\76          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

man  would  say  for  a  long  time.  At  last,  however,  b« 
made  a  few  vague  explanations,  to  the  effect  that  he 
would  be  compelled  to  stop  payment  on  the  next  day. 

"  I  thought,"  said  Mi's.  Mortimer,  "  that  the  sale  of 
this  house  was  to  afford  you  all  the  money  you 
needed  ?" 

"  It  is  not  sold  yet,"  was  all  his  reply  to  this.  He 
did  not  explain  that  it  was  under  a  heavy  mortgage, 
and  that,  even  if  sold,  the  amount  realized  would  be  a 
trifle  compared  with  his  need  on  the  following  day. 

During  the  greater  part  of  the  night,  Mortimer 
walked  the  floor  of  his  chamber ;  and,  for  a  portion  of 
the  time,  his  wife  moved  like  a  shadow  by  his  side. 
But  few  words  passed  between  them. 

When  the  day  broke,  Mrs.  Mortimer  was  lying  on 
the  bed,  asleep.  Tears  were  on  her  cheeks.  In  a  crib, 
beside  her,  was  a  fair-haired  child,  two  years  old, 
breathing  sweetly  in  his  innocent  slumber ;  and  over 
this  crib  bent  the  husband  and  father.  His  face  was 
now  calm,  but  very  pale,  and  its  expression  of  sadness 
as  he  gazed  upon  his  sleeping  child,  was  heart-touching. 
For  many  minutes  he  stood  over  the  unconscious  slum- 
berer ;  then  stooping  down,  he  touched  its  forehead 
lightly  with  his  lips,  while  a  low  sigh  struggled  up 
from  his  bosom.  Turning,  then,  his  eyes  upon  his 
wife,  he  gazed  at  her  for  some  moments,  with  a  sad, 


SLOW    AKD    SURE.  2*77 

pitying  look.  He  was  bending  to  kiss  her,  when  a 
movement,  as  if  she  were  about  to  awaken,  caused  him 
to  step  back,  and  stand  holding  his  breath,  as4  if  he 
feared  the  very  sound  would  disturb  her.  She  did  not 
open  her  eyes,  however,  but  turned  over,  with  a  _ow 
moan  of  suffering,  and  an  indistinct  murmur  of  his 
name. 

Mortimer  did  not  again  approach  the  bed-side,  but 
stepped  noiselessly  to  the  chamber  door,  and  passed 
into  the  next  room,  where  three  children,  who  made  up 
the  full  number  of  his  household  treasures,  were  buried 
in  tranquil  sleep.  Lung  he  did  not  linger  here.  A 
hurried  glance  was  taken  of  each  beloved  face,  and  a 
kiss  laid  lightly  upon  the  lips  of  each.  Then  he  left 
the  room,  moving  down  the  stairs  with  a  step  of  fear. 
A  moment  or  two  more,  and  he  was  beyond  the 
threshold  of  his  dwelling. 

Wh^n  Mrs.  Mortimer  started  up  from  unquiet  slum- 
ber, as  the  first  beams  of  the  morning  sun  fell  upon 
her  face,  she  looked  around,  eagerly,  for  her  husband. 
Not  seeing  him,  she  called  his  name.  No  answer 
was  received,  and  she  sprung  from  the  bed.  As  she 
did  so,  a  letter  placed  conspicuously  on  the  bureau  met 
her  eyes.  Eagerly  breaking  the  seal,  she  read  this  brief 
sentence : 

"  Circumstances  make  it  necessary  for  me  to  leave 


278          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

the  city  by  the  earliest  conveyance.  Say  not  a  word 
of  this  to  any  one — not  even  to  your  father.  My 
safety  depends  on  your  silence.  I  will  write  to  you  in 
a  little  while.  May  Heaven  give  you  strength  to  bea 
the  trials  through  which  you  are  about  to  pass  I" 

But  for  the  instant  fear  for  her  husband,  which  this 
communication  brought  into  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer, the  shock  would  have  rendered  her  insensible. 
He  was  in  danger,  and  upon  her  discretion  depended 
his  safety.  This  gave  her  strength  for  the  moment. 
Her  first  act  was  to  destroy  the  note.  Next  she  strove 
to  repress  the  wild  throbbings  of  her  heart,  and  to 
assume  a  calm  exterior.  Vain  efforts  !  She  was  too 
weak  for  the  trial ;  and  who  can  wonder  that  she  was  ? 

Mr.  Johnson  was  sitting  in  his  store  about  half  past 
three  o'clock  that  afternoon,  when  a  man  came  in  and 
asked  him  for  the  payment  of  a  note  of  five  thousand 
dollars.  He  was  a  Notary. 

"A  protest!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Johnson,  in  astonish- 
ment "  What  does  this  mean  ?" 

"  I  don't  understand  this,"  said  he,  after  a  momeii 
or  two.     "  I  have  no  paper  out  for  that  amount  billing 
due  to-day.     Let  me  see  it?" 

The  note  was  handed  to  him. 

"  It's  a  forgery  !"  said  he,  promptly.  "  To  whom  is 
it  payable !"  he  added.  "  To  Mortimer,  as  I  live !" 


BLOW    AND    SURE.  279 

And  he  handed  it  back  to  the  Notary,  who  departed. 

Soon  after  he  saw  the  father-in-law  of  Mortimer  go 
hurriedly  past  his  store.  A  glimpse  of  his  countenance 
showed  that  he  was  strongly  agitated. 

w  Have  you  heard  the  news  3"  asked  his  son-in-law, 
coming  in,  half  an  hour  afterwards. 

"  What  r  * 

"  Mortimer  has  been  detected  in  a  forgery  T 

"Upon  whom?" 

M  His  father-in-law." 

"  He  has  forged  my  name  also." 

"  He  has !" 

"Yes.  A  note  for  five  thousand  dollars  was  pre- 
sented to  me  by  the  Notary  a  little  while  ago." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?     But  this  is  no  loss  to  you." 

MIf  he  has  resorted  to  forgery  to  sustain  himself," 
replied  Mr.  Johnson,  looking  serious,  "  his  affairs  are, 
of  course,  in  a  desperate  condition." 

"  Of  course." 

"  I  am  on  his  paper  to  at  least  twenty  thousand  dol- 
lars." 

"  You !" 

"  Such,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  the  case.  And  to  meet 
that  paper  will  try  me  severely.  Oh,  dear  !  How  lit- 
tle I  dreamed  of  this !  I  thought  him  one  of  the 
soundest  men  in  the  city." 


280          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  I  am  pained  to  hear  that  you  are  so  deeply 
iiivolved,"  said  Mr.  Watson.  "But,  do  not  let  it 
trouble  you  too  much.  I  will  defer  my  building  inten- 
tions to  another  time,  and  let  you  have  whatever  money 
you  may  need." 

Mr.  Johnson  made  no  answer.  His  eyes  were  upon 
the  floor,  and  h!s  thoughts  away  back  to  the  time  when 
he  had  suffered  the  great  disappointment  of  seeing  his 
daughter  marry  the  slow,  plodding  Watson,  instead  of 
becoming  the  wife  of  the  enterprising  Mortimer. 

"  I  will  try,  my  son,"  said  he,  at  length,  in  a  sub- 
dued voice,  "  to  get  through  without  drawing  upon  you 
too  largely.  Ah,  me  !  How  blind  I  have  been." 

"  You  may  depend  on  me  for  at  least  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars,"  replied  Watson,  cheerfully;  "and  for 
even  more,  if  it  is  needed." 

It  was  soon  known  that  Mortimer  had  committed 
extensive  forgeries  upon  various  persons,  and  that  he 
had  left  the  city.  Officers  were  immediately  despatched 
for  his  arrest,  and  in  a  few  days  he  was  brought  back  as 
a  criminal.  In  his  ruin,  many  others  were  involved. 
Among  these  was  his  father-in-law,  who  was  stripped 
of  every  dollar  in  his  old  age. 

"  Slow  and  sure — slow  and  sure.  Yes,  Watson  was 
right."  Thus  mused  Mr.  Johnson,  a  few  months  after- 
wards, on  hearing  that  Mortimer  was  arraigned  before 


SLOW    AND    SURE.  281 

the  criminal  court,  to  stand  his  trial  for  forgery.  "  It  is 
the  safest  and  the  best  way,  and  certainly  leads  to  pros- 
perity. Ah,  me !  How  are  we  drawn  aside  into  false 
ways  through  our  eagerness  to  obtain  wealth  by  a 
nearer  road  than  that  of  patient  industry  in  legitimate 
trade.  Where  one  is  successful,  a  dozen  are  ruined  by 
this  error.  Sh»w  and  sure  1  Yes,  that  is  the  true  doc- 
trine. Watson  was  right,  as  the  i*ult  has  proved. 
Happy  for  me  that  his  was  a  better  experiment  than 
that  of  the  envied  Mortimer  T 


THE  SCHOOL  GIRL, 


"  WHERE  now  ?"  said  Frederick  Williams  to  his 
friend  Charles  Lawson,  on  entering  his  own  office  and 
finding  the  latter,  carpet-bag  in  hand,  awaiting  his 
arrival. 

"  Off  for  a  day  or  two  on  a  little  business  affair," 
replied  Lawson. 

"  Business  !     What  have  you  to  do  with  business  f ' 

"Not  ordinary,  vulgar  business,"  returned  Lawson 
with  a  slight  toss  of  the  head  and  an  expression  of 
contempt. 

"  Oh !     It's  of  a  peculiar  nature  ?" 

"  It  is — very  peculiar ;  and,  moreover,  I  want  the 
good  offices  of  a  friend,  to  enable  me  the  more  certainly 
tc  accomplish  my  purposes." 

"  Come !  sit  down  and  explain  yourself,"  said 
Williams. 


THE    SCHOOL  GIRL.  283 

"  Havn't  a  moment  to  spare.  The  boat  goes  in  half 
an  hour." 

"What  boat?" 

"The  New  Haven  boat     So  come,  go  along  with 
me  to  the  slip,  and  we'll  talk  the  matter  over  by  th 
way." 

"  I'm  all  attention,"  said  "Williams,  as  the  two  young 
men  stepped  forth  upon  the  pavement. 

"  Well,  you  must  know,"  began  Lawson,  "  that  I 
have  a  first  rate  iove  affair  on  my  hands." 

"You!" 

"  Now  don't  smile  ;  but  hear  me." 

u  Go  on — I'm  all  attention." 

"  You  know  old  Everett  ?" 

"  Thomas  Everett,  the  silk  importer  !n 

u  The  same." 

"  I  know  something  about  him." 

"  You  know,  I  presume,  that  he  has  a  pretty  fair 
looking  daughter  ?" 

"  And  I  know,"  replied  Williams,  "  that  when  '  pret 
ty  fair  looking'  is  said,  pretty  much  all  is  said  in  hei 
favor." 

"  Not  by  a  great  deal,"  was  the  decided  answer  of 
Lawson. 

"Pray  what  is  there  beyond  this  that  a  man  can 
call  attractive  ?" 


284          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  Her  father's  money." 

"  I  didn't  think  of  that." 

"Didn't  you?" 

"  No.  But  it  would  take  the  saving  influence  of  a 
pretty  large  sum  to  give  her  a  marriageable  merit  in 
my  eyes." 

"  Gold  hides  a  multitude  of  defects,  you  know,  Fred." 

"  It  does ;  but  it  has  to  be  heaped  up  very  high  to 
cover  a  wife's  defects,  if  they  be  as  radical  as  those  in 
Caroline  Everett.  Why,  to  speak  out  the  plain,  home- 
spun truth,  the  girl's  a  fool !" 

"  She  isn't  over  bright,  Fred,  I  know,"  replied  Law  • 
son.  "  But  to  call  her  a  fool,  is  to  use  rather  a  broad 
assertion." 

"  She  certainly  hasn't  good  common  sense.  I  would 
be  ashamed  of  her  in  company  a  dozen  times  a  day  if 
she  were  any  thing  to  me." 

u  She's  young,  you  know,  Fred." 

"  Yes,  a  young  and  silly  girl." 

"  Just  silly  enough  for  my  purpose.  But,  she  will 
grow  older  and  wiser,  you  know.  Young  and  silly  is  a 
very  good  fault." 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?" 

"  At  a  boarding  school  some  thirty  miles  from  New 
Haven.  Do  you  know  why  her  father  sent  her  there  ?" 

"No." 


THE    SCHOOL    GIRL.  285 

"  She  would  meet  me  on  her  way  to  and  from  school 
while  in  the  city,  and  the  old  gentleman  had,  I  pre- 
sume, some  objections  to  me  as  a  son-in-law." 

"  And  not  without  reason,"  replied  Williams. 

"  I  could  not  have  asked  him  to  do  a  thing  more 
consonant  with  my  wishes,"  continued  Lawson.  "  Car- 
oline told  me-»'here  she  was  going,  and  I  was  not  long 
in  making  a  visit  to  the  neighborhood.  Great  attention 
is  paid  to  physical  development  in  the  school,  and  the 
young  ladies  are  required  to  walk,  daily,  in  the  open  air, 
amid  the  beautiful,  romantic,  and  secluded  scenery  by 
which  the  place  is  surrounded.  They  walk  alone,  or  in 
company,  as  suits  their  fancies.  Caroline  chose  to  walk 
alone  when  I  was  near  at  hand  ;  and  we  met  in  a  certain 
retired  glen,  where  the  sweet  quiet  of  nature  was  broken 
only  by  the  dreamy  murmur  of  a  silvery  stream,  and 
there  we  talked  of  love.  It  is  not  in  the  heart  of  a 
woman  to  withstand  a  scene  like  this.  I  told,  in  burning 
words,  my  passion,  and  she  hearkened  and  was  won  " 
Lawson  paused  for  some  moments ;  but,  as  Williams 
made  no  remark,  he  continued — 

"  It  is  hopeless  to  think  of  gaining  her  father's  con- 
sent to  a  marriage.  He  is  pence-proud,  and  I,  as  you 
know,  am  penniless." 

"  I  do  not  think  he  would  be  likely  to  fancy  you  foi 
a  son-in-law,"  said  Williams. 


286          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"I  have  the  best  of  reasons  for  knowing  that  he 
would  not.  He  has  already  spoken  of  me  to  his 
daughter  in  very  severe  terms." 

"  As  she  has  informed  you  V 

"  Yes.  But,  like  a  sensible  girl,  she  prefers  consult 
ing  her  own  taste  in  matters  of  the  heart." 

"  A  very  sensible  girl,  certainly  !" 

"  Isn't  she  !  Well,  as  delays  are  dangerous,  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  consummate  this  business  as 
quickly  as  possible.  You  know  how  hard  pressed  I  am 
in  certain  quarters,  and  how  necessary  it  is  that  I  should 
get  my  pecuniary  matters  in  a  more  stable  position. 
In  a  word,  then,  my  business,  on  the  present  occasion, 
is  to  remove  Caroline  from  school,  it  being  my  opinion 
that  she  has  completed  her  education." 

"  Has  she  consented  to  this  ?" 

"  No ;  but  she  won't  require  any  great  persuasion. 
I'll  manage  all  that.  What  I  want  you  to  do  is,  first, 
to  engage  me  rooms  at  Howard's,  and,  second,  to  meet 
me  at  the  boat,  day  after  to-morrow,  with  a  carriage." 

"  Where  will  you  have  the  ceremony  performed !" 

"  In  this  city.  I  have  already  engaged  the  Rev.  Mr. 

B to  do  that  little  work  for  me.  He  will  join  us 

at  the  hotel  immediately  on  our  arrival,  and  in  your 
presence,  as  a  witness,  the  knot  will  be  tied." 

"  All  very  nicely  arranged,"  said  Williams. 


THE    SCHOOL    GIRL.  287 

"  Isn't  it !  And  what  is  more,  the  whole  thing  will 
go  off  like  clock  work.  Of  course  I  can  depend  on 
you.  You  will  meet  us  at  the  boat." 

"  I  will,  certainly." 

"  Then  good  by."  They  were  by  this  time  at  the 
landing.  The  two  young  men  shook  hands,  and  Law- 
Bon  sprung  on  board  of  the  boat,  while  Williams  re- 
turned thoughtfully  to  his  office. 

Charles  Lawson  was  a  young  man  having  neither 
principle  nor  character.  A  connection  with  certain 
families  in  New  York,  added  to  a  good  address,  polished 
manners,  and  an  unblushing  assurance,  had  given  him 
access  to  society  ai  certain  point*,  and  of  this  facility 
he  had  taken  every  advantage.  Too  idle  and  dissolute 
for  useful  effort  in  society,  he  looked  with  a  cold,  calcu- 
lating baseness  to  marriage  as  the  means  whereby  ha 
was  to  gain  the  position  at  which  he  aspired.  Possess- 
ing no  attractive  virtues — no  personal  merits  of  any 
kind,  his  prospects  of  a  connection,  such  as  he  wished 
to  form,  through  the  medium  of  any  honorable  advan- 
A,  were  hopeless,  and  this  he  perfectly  well  under- 
stood. But,  the  conviction  did  not  in  the  least  abato 
the  ardor  of  his  purpose.  And,  in  a  mean  and  das- 
tardly spirit,  he  approached  one  young  school  girl  after 
another,  until  he  found  in  Caroline  Everett  one  weak 
enough  to  be  flattered  by  his  attentions.  The  father 


288          HBART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

of  Caroline,  who  was  a  man  of  some  discrimination  and 
force  of  mind,  understood  his  daughter's  character,  and 
knowing  the  danger  to  which  she  was  exposed,  kept 
upon  her  a  watchful  eye.  Caroline's  meetings  with 
Lawson  were  not  continued  long  before  he  became 
aware  of  the  fact,  and  he  at  once  removed  her  to  a 
school  at  a  distance  from  the  city.  It  would  have  been 
wiser  had  he  taken  her  home  altogether.  Lawson 
could  have  desired  no  better  arrangement,  so  far  as  his 
wishes  were  concerned. 

On  the  day  succeeding  that  on  which  Lawson  left 
New  York,  Caroline  was  taking  her  morning  walk  with 
two  or  three  companions,  when  she,  noticed  a  mark  on 
a  certain  tree,  which  she  knew  as  a  sign  that  her  lover 
was  in  the  neighborhood  and  awaiting  her  in  the  se- 
cluded glen,  half  a  mile  distant,  where  they  had  already 
met.  Feigning  to  have  forgotten  something,  she  ran 
back,  but  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  sight  of  her 
companions,  she  glided  off  with  rapid  steps  in  the 
direction  where  she  expected  to  find  Lawson.  And  she 
was  not  disappointed. 

"Dear  Caroline!"  he  exclaimed,  with  affected  ten- 
derness, drawing  his  arm  about  her  and  kissing  her 
cheek,  as  he  met  her.  "  How  happy  I  am  to  see  you 
again  !  Oh !  it  has  seemed  months  since  I  looked 
upon  your  sweet  young  face." 


THE   SCHOOL   GIRL.  289 

u  And  yet  it  is  only  a  week  since  you  were  here," 
returned  Caroline,  looking  at  him  fondly. 

"  I  cannot    bear    this    separation.      It    makes    ma 

wretched,"  said  Lawson. 

* 
"  And  I  am  miserable,"  responded  Caroline,  with  a 

sigh,  and  her  eyes  fell  to  the  ground.  "Miserable," 
she  repeated. 

"  I  love  ydV,  tenderly,  devotedly,"  said  Lawson,  as  he 
tightly  clasped  the  hand  he  had  taken  :  "  and  it  is  my 
most  ardent  wish  to  make  you  happy.  Oh  !  why 
should  a  parent's  mistaken  will  interpose  between  us 
and  our  dearest  wishes  ?" 

Caroline  leaned  toward  the  young  man,  but  did  not 
reply. 

"  Is  there  any  hope  of  his  being  induced  to  give  his 
consent  to — to — our — union  ?" 

"  None,  I  fear,"  came  from  the  lips  of  Caroline  in  a 
faint  whisper. 

"  Is  he  so  strongly  prejudiced  against  me  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Then,  what  are  we  to  do  ?" 

Caroline  sighed. 

"  To  meet,  hopelessly,  is  only  to  make  us  the  more 
wretched,"  said  Lawson.  "  Better  part,  and  forever, 
than  suffer  a  martyrdom  of  affection  like  this." 

Still  closer  shrunk  the  weak  and  foolish  girl  to  th« 
13 


290         HEART   HISTORIES   AND   LIFE   PICTURES. 

young  man's  side.  She  was  like  a  bird  in  the  magpe 
circle  of  the  charmer. 

"  Caroline,"  said  Lawson,  after  another  period  of 
ilence,  and  his  voice  was  low,  tender  and  penetrating— 
"  Are  you  willing,  for  my  sake,  to  brave  your  fathers 
anger  ?" 

"  For  your  sake,  Charles  !"  replied  Caroline,  with 
sudden  enthusiasm.  "  Yes — yes.  His  anger  would 
be  light  to  the  loss  of  your  affection." 

"  Bless  your  true  heart !"  exclaimed  Lawson.  "  I 
knew  that  I  had  not  trusted  it  in  vain.  And  now,  my 
dear  girl,  let  me  speak  freely  of  the  nature  of  my 
present  visit.  With  you,  I  believe,  that  all  hope  of 
your  father's  consent  is  vain.  But,  he  is  a  man  of 
tender  feelings,  and  loves  you  as  the  apple  of  his  eye." 

Thus  urged  the  tempter,  and  Caroline  listened 
eagerly. 

"  If,"  he  continued,  "  we  precipitate  a  union — if  we 
put  the  marriage  rite  between  us  and  his  strong 
opposition,  that  opposition  will  grow  weak  as  a 
withering  leaf.  He  cannot  turn  from  you.  He  loves 
you  too  well." 

Caroline  did  not  answer  ;  but,  it  needed  no  words  to 
tell  Lawson  that  he  was  not  urging  his  wishes  in  vain. 

"I  am  here,"  at  length  he  said,  boldly,  "for  the 


THE    SCHOOL    GJJPtL.  29! 

purpose  of  taking  you  to  New  York.  Will  you  go 
with  me  ?" 

"  For  what  end  ?"  she  whispered. 

u  To  become  my  wife." 

There  was  no  starting,  shrinking,  nor  trembling  at 
this  proposal.  Caroline  was  prepared  for  it ;  and,  in 
the  blindness  of  a  mistaken  love,  ready  to  do  as  the 
tempter  wished.  Poor  lamb !  She  was  to  be  led  to 
the  slaughter*  decked  with  ribbons  and  garlands,  a 
victim  by  her  own  consent. 

Frederick  Williams,  the  friend  of  Lawson,  was  a 
young  attorney,  who  had  fallen  into  rather  wild 
company,  and  strayed  to  some  distance  along  the  pa<hs 
of  dissipation.  But,  he  had  a  young  and  lovely- 
minded  sister,  who  possessed  much  influence  over  him. 
The  very  sphere  of  her  purity  kept  him  from  debasing 
himself  to  any  great  extent,  and  ever  drew  him  back 
from  a  total  abandonment  of  himself  in  the  hour  of 
temptation.  He  had  been  thrown  a  good  deal  into  the 
society  of  Lawson,  who  had  many  attractive  points  for 
young  men  about  him,  and  who  knew  how  to  adapt 
himself  to  the  characters  of  those  with  whom  he 
associated.  In  some  things  he  did  not  like  Lawson, 
who,  at  times,  manifested  such  an  entire  want  of 
principle,  that  he  felt  shocked.  On  parting  with 
Lawson  at  the  boat,  as  we  have  seen,  he  walked 


292          HEART    HISTORIES   AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

thoughtfully  away.  His  mind  was  far  from  approving 
what  he  had  heard,  and  the  more  he  reflected  upon  it, 
the  less  satisfied  did  he  feel.  He  knew  enough  of  the 
character  of  Lawson  to  be  well  satisfied  that  his 
marriage  with  Caroline,  who  was  an  overgrown,  weak- 
minded  school  girl,  would  prove  the  wreck  of  her 
future  happiness,  and  the  thought  of  becoming  a  party 
to  such  a  transaction  troubled  him.  On  returning  to 
his  office,  he  found  his  sister  waiting  for  him,  and,  as 
his  eyes  rested  upon  her  innocent  young  countenance, 
the  idea  of  her  being  made  the  victim  of  so  base  a 
marriage,  flashed  with  a  pang  amid  his  thoughts. 
.  "  I  will  have  no  part  nor  lot  in  this  matter,"  he  said, 
mentally.  And  he  was  in  earnest  in  this  resolution. 
But  not  long  did  his  mind  rest  easy  under  his  assumed 
passive  relation  to  a  contemplated  social  wrong,  that 
one  word  from  him  might  prevent.  From  the  thought 
of  betraying  Lawson's  confidence,  his  mind  shrunk  with 
a  certain  instinct  of  honor ;  while,  at  the  same  time, 
pressed  upon  him  the  irresistible  conviction  that  a 
deeper  dishonor  would  attach  to  him  if  he  permitted 
the  marriage  to  take  place. 

The  day  passed  with  him  uncomfortably  enough. 
The  more  he  thought  about  the  matter,  the  more  ha 
felt  troubled.  In  the  evening  he  met  his  sister  again, 
and  the  sight  of  her  made  him  more  deeply  conscious 


THE   SCHOOL   GIRL.  293 

of  the  responsibility  resting  upon  him.  His  oft 
repeated  mental  excuse—"  It's  none  of  my  business," 
or,  "I  can't  meddle  in  other  men's  affairs,"  did  not 
satisfy  certain  convictions  of  right  and  duty  that 
presented  themselves  with,  to  him,  a  strange  distinct- 
ness. The  thought  of  his  own  sister  was  instantly 
associated  with  the  scheme  of  some  false-hearted  wretch, 
involving  Her  happiness  in  the  way  that  the  happiness 
of  Caroline  Everett  was  to  be  involved  ;  and  he  felt 
that  the  man  who  knew  that  another  was  plotting 
against  her,  and  did  not  apprize  him  of  the  fact,  was 
little  less  than  a  villain  at  heart. 

On  the  next  day  Williams  learned  that  there  was  a 
writ  out  against  the  person  of  Charles  Lawson  on  a 
charge  of  swindling,  he  having  obtained  a  sum  of 
money  from  a  broker  under  circumstances  construed  by 
the  laws  into  crime.  This  fact  determined  him  to  go  at 
once  to  Mr.  Everett,  who,  as  it  might  be  supposed,  was 
deeply  agitated  at  the  painful  intelligence  he  received. 
His  first  thought  was  to  proceed  immediately  to  New 
Haven,  and  there  rescue  his  daughter  from  the  hands 
of  the  young  man  ;  but  on  learning  the  arrangements 
that  had  been  made,  he,  after  much  reflection,  concluded 
that  it  would  be  best  to  remain  in  New  York,  and  meet 
them  on  their  arrival. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  foolish  girl,  whom  Lawson  had 


294         HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

determined  to  sacrifice  to  his  base  cupidity,  was  half 
wild  with  delighted  anticipation.  Poor  child  !  Passion- 
wrought  romances,  written  by  men  and  women  who 
had  neither  right  views  of  life,  nor  a  purpose  in 
literature  beyond  gain  or  reputation,  had  bewildered 
her  half-formed  reason,  and  filled  her  imagination  with 
unreal  pictures.  AH  her  ideas  were  false  or  exag- 
gerated. She  was  a  woman,  with  the  mind  of  an 
inexperienced  child ;  if  to  say  this  does  not  savor  of 
contradiction.  Without  dreaming  that  there  might  be 
thorns  to  pierce  her  naked  feet  in  the  way  she  was 
about  to  enter,  she  moved  forward  with  a  joyful 
confidence. 

On  the  day  she  had  agreed  to  return  with  Lawson, 
she  met  him  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  started  for 
New  Haven,  where  they  spent  the  night.  On  the 
following  day  they  left  in  the  steamboat  for  New 
York.  All  his  arrangements  for  the  marriage  were 
fully  explained  to  Caroline  by  Lawson,  and  most  of  the 
time  that  elapsed  after  leaving  New  Haven,  was  spent 
in  settling  their  future  action  in  regard  to  the  family. 
Caroline  was  confident  that  all  would  be  forgiven  after 
the  first  outburst  of  anger  on  the  part  of  her  father, 
and  that  they  would  be  taken  home  immediately.  Tha 
cloud  wou  d  quickly  melt  in  tears,  and  then  the  sky 
would  be  purer  and  brighter  than  before. 


IHE    SCHOOL    GIRL.  295 

When  the  boat  touched  the  wharf,  Lawson  looked 
eagerly  for  the  appearance  of  his  friend  Williams,  and 
was  disappointed,  and  no  little  troubled,  at  not  seeing 
him.  After  most  of  the  passengers  had  gone  on  shore 
he  called  a  carriage,  and  was  driven  to  Howard's,  where 
he  ordered  a  couple  of  rooms,  after  first  enquiring 
whether  a  friend  had  not  already  performed  this  service 
for  him.  His  next  step  was  to  write  a  note  to  the  Rev. 

Mr.  B ,  desiring   his   immediate   attendance,  and, 

also,  one  to  Williams,  informing  him  of  his  arrival. 
Anxiously,  and  with  a  nervous  fear  lest  some  untoward 
circumstance  might  prevent  the  marriage  he  was  about 
effecting  with  a  silly  heiress,  did  the  young  man  await 
the  response  to  these  notes,  and  great  was  his  relief, 
when  informed,  after  the  lapse  of  an  hour,  that  the 
Reverend  gentleman,  whose  attendance  he  had  desired, 
was  in  the  house. 

A  private  parlor  had  been  engaged,  and  in  this  the 
ceremony  of  marriage  was  to  take  place.     This  parlor 
adjoined  a  chamber,  in  which  Caroline  awaited,  with 
trembling  heart,  the  issue  of  events.     It  was  now,  fo 
the  first  time,  as  she  was  about  taking  the  final  and 
irretrievable  step,  that  her  resolution  began  to  fail  her. 
Her  father's    anger,   the   grief    of    her    mother,   the 
unknown  state  upon  which  she  was  about  entering,  all 


296          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

came   pressing   upon   her  thoughts   with  a  sense  of 
realization  such  as  she  had  not  known  before. 

Doubts  as  to  the  propriety  of  what  she  was  about 
oing,  came  fast  upon  her  mind.  In  the  nearness  of 
the  approaching  event,  she  could  look  upon  it  stripped 
of  its  halo  of  romance.  During  the  two  days  that  she 
had  been  with  Lawson,  she  had  seen  him  in  states  of 
absent  thought,  when  the  true  quality  of  his  mind 
wrote  itself  out  upon  his  face  so  distinctly  that  even  a 
dim-sighted  one  could  read ;  and  more  than  once  she 
had  felt  an  inward  shrinking  from  him  that  was 
irrepressible.  Weak  and  foolish  as  she  was,  she  was 
yet  pure-minded ;  and  though  in  the  beginning  she  did 
not,  because  her  heart  was  overlaid  with  frivolity, 
perceive  the  sphere  of  his  impurity,  yet  now,  as  the 
moment  was  near  at  hand  when  there  was  to  be  a 
marriage-conjunction,  she  began  to  feel  this  sphere  as 
something  that  suffocated  her  spirit.  At  length,  in  the 
agitation  of  contending  thoughts  and  emotions,  the 
heart  of  the  poor  girl  failed  her,  till,  in  the  utter 
abandonment  of  feeling,  she  gave  way  to  a  flood  of 
tears  and  commenced  wringing  her  hands.  At  this 
moment,  having  arranged  with  the  clergyman  to  begin 
the  ceremony  forthwith,  Lawson  enteied  her  room,  and, 
to  his  surprise,  saw  her  in  tears. 

"  Oh,  Charles !"  she  exclaimed,  clasping  her  hands 


THE    SCHOOL    GIRL.  297 

and  extending  them  towards  him,  **  Take  me  home  to 
my  father !     Oh,  take  me  home  to  my  father !" 

Lawson  was  confounded  at  such  an  unexpected 
change  in  Caroline.  "  You  shall  go  to  your  father  the 
moment  the  ceremony  is  over,"  he  replied ;  "  Come ! 
Mr.  B-; is  all  ready." 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  Take  me  now  !  Take  me  now !" 
returned  the*poor  girl  in  an  imploring  voice.  And  she 
sat  before  the  man  who  had  tempted  her  from  the  path 
of  safety,  weeping,  and  quivering  like  a  leaf  in  the 
wind. 

"  Caroline  !  "What  has  come  over  you  !"  said 
Lawson,  in  deep  perplexity.  "  This  is  only  a  weakness. 
Come !  Nerve  your  heart  like  a  brave,  good  girl ! 
Come  !  It  will  soon  be  over." 

And  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her  wet  cheek,  while 
she  shrunk  from  him  with  an  involuntary  dread.  But, 
he  drew  his  arm  around  her  waist,  and  almost  forced 
her"  to  rise. 

"  There  now !  Dry  your  tears  !"  And  he  placed 
his  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  "  It  is  but  a  moment  of 
weakness,  Caroline, — of  natural  weakness." 

As  he  said  this,  he  was  pressing  her  forward  towards 
the  door  of  the  apartment  where  the  clergyman  (such 
clergymen  disgrace  their  profession)  awaited  their 
appearance, 

13* 


298          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  Charles !"  said  Caroline,  with  a  suddenly  constrained 
calmness — "  do  you  love  me  ?" 

"  Better  than  my  own  life  !"  was  instantly  replied. 

"  Then  take  me  to  my  father.  I  am  too  young — too 
weak — too  inexperienced  for  this." 

"  The  moment  we  are  united  you  shall  go  home,'1 
returned  Lawson.  "I  will  not  hold  you  back  an 
instant" 

"  Let  me  go  now,  Charles !     Oh,  let  me  go  now  !" 

"  Are  you  mad,  girl !"  exclaimed  the  young  man, 
losing  his  self-control.  And,  with  a  strong  arm,  he 
forced  her  into  the  next  room.  For  a  brief  period,  the 
clergyman  hesitated,  on  seeing  the  distressed  bride. 
Then  he  opened  the  book  he  held  in  his  hand  and 
began  to  read  the  service.  As  his  voice,  in  tones  of 
solemnity,  filled  the  apartment,  Caroline  grew  calmer. 
She  felt  like  one  driven  forward  by  a  destiny  against 
which  it  was  vain  to  contend.  All  the  responses  had 
been  made  by  Lawson,  and  now  the  clergyman 
addressed  her.  Passively  she  was  about  uttering  her 
assentation,  when  the  door  of  the  room  was  thrown 
open,  and  two  men  entered. 

"  Stop  !"  was  instantly  cried  in  a  loud,  agitated  voice, 
which  Caroline  knew  to  be  that  of  her  father,  and 
never  did  that  voice  come  to  her  ears  with  a  more 
welcome  sound. 


THE    SCHOOL    GIRL.  299 

Lawson  started,  and  moved  from  her  side.  While 
Caroline  yet  stood  trembling  and  doubting,  the  man 
•who  had  come  in  with  Mr.  Everett  approached  Lawson, 
and  laying  his  hand  upon  him,  said — "  I  arrest  you  on 
a  charge  of  swindling  !" 

With  a  low  cry  of  distress,  Caroline  sprung  towards 
her  father  ;  but  he  held  his  hands  out  towards  her  as  if 
to  keep  her  off,  saying,  at  the  same  time — 

"  Are  you  his  wife  ?" 

"  No,  thank  Heaven  !"  fell  from  her  lips. 

In  the  next  moment  she  was  in  her  father's  arms, 
and  both  were  weeping. 

Narrow  indeed  was  the  escape  made  by  Caroline 
Everett;  an  escape  which  she  did  not  fully  compre- 
hend until  a  few  months  afterwards,  when  the  trial  of 
Lawson  took  place,  during  which  revelations  of  villany 
were  made,  the  recital  of  which  caused  her  heart  to 
shudder.  Yes,  narrow  had  been  her  escape  !  Ilad  her 
father  been  delayed  a  few  moments  longer,  she  would 
have  become  the  wife  of  a  man  soon  after  condemned 
to  expiate  his  crimes  against  society  in  the  felon's  cell ! 

May  a  vivid  realization  of  what  Caroline  Everett 
escaped,  warn  other  young  girls,  who  bear  a  similar 
relation  to  society,  of  the  danger  that  lurks  in  their 
way.  Not  once  in  a  hundred  instances,  is  a  school  girl 


300          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

approached  with  lover-like  attentions,  except  by  a  man 
who  is  void  of  principle ;  and  not  once  in  a  hundred 
instances  do  marriages  entered  upon  clandestinely  by 
*uch  persons,  prove  othei  than  an  introduction  to  years 
of  wretchedness. 


UNREDEEMED  PLEDGES. 


Two  men  were  walking  along  a  public  thoroughfare 
in  New  York.  One  of  them  was  a  young  merchant — 
the  other  a  man  past  the  prime  of  life,  and  belonging 
to  the  community  of  Friends.  They  were  in  conversa- 
tion, and  the  manner  of  the  former,  earnest  and  em- 
phatic, was  in  marked  contrast  with  the  quiet  and 
thoughtful  air  of  the  other. 

"  There  is  so  much  idleness  and  imposture  among  the 
poor,"  said  the  merchant,  "  that  you  never  know  when 
your  alms  are  going  to  do  harm  or  good.  The  beggar 
we  just  passed  is  able  to  work  ;  and  that  woman  sitting 
at  the  corner  with  a  sick  child  in  her  arms,  would  be 
far  better  off  in  the  almshouse.  No  man  is  more  will- 
ing to  give  than  I  am,  if  I  only  knew  where  and  when 
to  give." 

*  If  we  look  around  us  carefully,  Mr.  Edwards,"  re« 


302          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

turned  the  Quaker,  M  we  need  be  at  no  loss  on  this  sub- 
ject.  Objects  enough  will  present  themselves.  Virtu- 
ous want  is,  in  most  cases,  unobtrusive,  and  will  suffer 
rather  than  extend  a  hand  for  relief.  We  must  seek 
or  objects  of  benevolence  in  by-places.  We  must 
turn  aside  into  untrodden  walks." 

"  But  even  then,"  objected  Mr.  Edwards,  "  we  can- 
not be  certain  that  idleness  and  vice  are  not  at  the 
basis  of  the  destitution  we  find.  I  have  had  my  doubts 
whether  any  who  exercise  the  abilities  which  God  has 
given  them,  need  want  for  the  ordinary  comforts  of  life 
in  this  country.  In  all  cases  of  destitution,  there  is 
something  wrong,  you  may  depend  upon  it" 

"  Perhaps  there  is,"  said  the  Quaker.  "  Evil  of 
some  kind  is  ever  the  cause  of  destitution  and  wretch- 
edness. Such  bitter  waters  as  these  cannot  flow  from  a 
sweet  fountain.  Still,  many  are  brought  to  suffering 
through  the  evil  ways  of  others  ;  and  many  whose  own 
wrong  doings  have  reacted  upon  them  in  unhappy  con- 
sequences, deeply  repent  of  the  past,  and  earnestly  de- 
sire to  live  better  lives  in  future.  Both  need  kindness, 
encouragement,  and,  it  may  be,  assistance ;  and  it  is  the 
duty  of  those  who  have  enough  and  to  spare,  to  stretch 
forth  their  hands  to  aid,  comfort  and  sustain  them." 

"  Yes.  That  is  true;  But,  how  are  we  to  know  who 
are  the  real  objects  of  our  benevolence !" 


UNREDEEMED    PLEDGES.  303 

u  We  have  but  to  open  our  eyes  and  see,  Mr.  Ed- 
wards," said  the  Quaker.  "  The  objects  of  benevolence 
are  all  around  us." 

"  Show  me  a  worthy  object,  and  you  will  find  me 
.-eady  .to  relieve  it,"  returned  the  merchant.  "I  am 
not  so  selfish  as  to  be  indifferent  to  human  suffering. 
But  I  think  it  wrong  to  encourage  idleness  and  vice  ; 
and  for  this  ^eason,  I  never  give  unless  I  am  certain 
that  the  object  who  presents  himself  is  worthy." 

"  True  benevolence  does  not  always  require  us  to  give 
films,"  said  the  Friend.  "  We  may  do  much  to  aid, 
comfort  and  help  on  with  their  burdens  our  fellow  trav- 
ellers, and  yet  not  bestow  upon  them  what  is  called 
charily.  Mere  alms-giving,  as  thee  has  intimated,  but 
too  often  encouiages  vice  and  idleness.  But  thee  de- 
sires to  find  a  worthy  ol>ject  of  benevolente.  Let  us 
see  if  we  cannot  find  one.  What  have  we  here?' 
And  as  the  Quaker  said  this  he  paused  before  a  build- 
ing, from  the  door  of  which  protruded  a  rod  flag,  con- 
taining the  words,  "Auction  this  day."  On  a  1,-trge 
card  just  beneath  the  flag  was  the  announcement,  "Pos- 
itive sale  of  unredeemed  pledges." 

"  Let  us  turn  in  here,"  said  the  Quaker.  "  Xo 
doubt  wo  shall  find  enough  to  excite  our  sympathies." 

Mr.  Edwards   thought  this  a  strange  proposal ;  but 


304          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

he  felt  a  little  curious,  and  followed  his  companion  with, 
out  hesitation. 

The  sale  had  already  begun,  and  there  was  a  smaL 
company  assembled.  Among  them,  the  merchant  no- 
ticed a  young  woman  whose  face  was  partially  veiled. 
She  was  sitting  a  little  apart  from  the  rest,  and  did  not 
appear  to  take  any  interest  in  the  bidding.  But  he  no- 
ticed that,  after  an  article  was  knocked  off,  she  was  all 
attention  until  the  next  was  put  up,  and  then,  the  mo- 
ment it  was  named,  relapsed  into  a  sort  of  listlessnesa 
or  abstraction. 

The  articles  sold  embraced  a  great  variety  of  things 
useful  and  ornamental.  In  the  main  they  were  made 
up  of  watches,  silver  plate,  jewellery  and  wearing  ap- 
parel. There  were  garments  of  every  kind,  quality  and 
condition,  upon  which  money  to  about  a  fourth  of  their 
real  value  had  been  loaned ;  and  not  having  been  re- 
deemed, they  were  now  to  be  sold  for  the  benefit  of 
the  pawnbroker. 

The  company  bid  with  animation,  and  article  after 
article  was  sold  off.  The  interest  at  first  awakened  by 
the  scene,  new  to  the  young  merchant,  wore  off  in  a 
little  while,  and  turning  to  his  companion  he  said — 

"  I  don't  see  that  much  is  to  be  gained  by  staying 
here." 

"  Wait  a  little  longer,  an  1  perhaps  thee  will  think 


'    UNREDEEMED    PLEDGES.  305 

differently,"  returned  the  Quaker,  glancing  towards  the 
young  woman  who  has  been  mentioned,  as  he  spoke. 

The  words  had  scarcely  passed  his  lips,  when  the 
auctioneer  took  up  a  small  gold  locket  containing  a 
miniature,  and  holding  it  up,  asked  for  a  bid. 

"  How  much  for  this  ?  How  much  for  this  beauti- 
ful gold  locket  and  miniature  ?  Give  me  a  bid.  Ten 
dollars !  Eigtt  dollars  !  Five  dollars  !  Four  dollars — • 
why,  gentlemen,  it  never  cost  less  than  fifty'.  Four 
dollars  !  Four  dollars !  Will  no  one  give  four  dollars 
for  this  beautiful  gold  locket  and  miniature  ?  It's 
thrown  away  at  that  price." 

At  the  mention  of  the  locket,  the  young  woman 
came  forward  and  looked  up  anxiously  at  the  auctioneer. 
Mr.  Edwards  could  see  enough  of  her  face  to  ascertain 
that  it  was  an  interesting  and  intelligent  one,  though 
very  sad. 

"  Three  dollars !"  continued  the  auctioneer.  But 
there  was  no  bid.  "  Two  dollars  !  One  dollar !" 

"One  dollar,"  was  the  response  from  a  man  who 
stood  just  in  front  of  the  woman.  Mr.  Edwards,  whose 
eyes  were  upon  the  latter,  noticed  that  she  became 
much  agitated  the  moment  this  bid  was  made. 

"One  dollar  we  have!  One  dollar!  Only  on« 
dollar  !"  cried  the  auctioneer.  "  Only  one  dollar  for  a 
gold  locket  and  miniature  worth  forty.  One  dollar !" 


306          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  Nine  shillings,"  said  the  young  woman  in  a  low 
timid  voice. 

"  Nine  shillings  bid  !  Nine  shillings  !  Nine  shil- 
iflgs!" 

"  Ten  shillings,"  said  the  first  bidder. 

"Ten  shillings  it  is!  Ten  shillings,  and  thrown 
away.  Ten  shillings  !" 

"Eleven  shillings,"  said  the  girl,  beginning  to  grow 
excited.  Mr.  Edwards,  who  could  not  keep  his  eyes  off 
of  her  face,  from  which  the  veil  had  entirely  fallen,  saw 
that  she  was  trembling  with  eagerness  and  anxiety. 

"  Eleven  shillings  !"  repeated  the  auctioneer,  glancing 
at  the  first  bidder,  a  coarse-looking  man,  and  the  only 
one  who  seemed  disposed  to  bid  against  the  young 
woman. 

"  Twelve  shillings,"  said  the  man  resolutely. 

A  paleness  went  over  the  face  of  the  other  bidder, 
and  a  quick  tremor  passed  through  her  frame. 

"Twelve  shillings  is  bid.  Twelve  shillings  is  bid. 
Twelve  shillings!"  And  the  auctioneer  now  looked 
.owards  the  young  woman  who,  in  a  faint  voice,  said — 

"  Thirteen  shillings." 

By  this  time  the  merchant  began  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  what  was  passing  before  him.  The  minia- 
ture was  that  of  a  middle-aged  lady ;  and  it  required 
no  great  strength  of  imagination  to  determine  that  the 


UNREDEEMED    FLEDGES.  307 

original  was  the  mother  of  the  young  woman  who 
seemed  so  anxious  to  possess  the  locket. 

"  But  how  came  it  here  ?"  was  the  involuntary  sug- 
gestion to  the  mind  of  Mr.  Edwards.  "  Who  pawned 
it?  Did  she?" 

"  Fourteen  shillings,"  said  the  man  who  was  bidding, 
breaking  in  upon  the  reflections  of  Mr.  Edwards. 

The  veil  flsat  had  been  drawn  aside,  fell  instantly 
over  the  face  of  the  young  woman,  and  she  shrunk 
back  from  her  prominent  position,  yet  still  remained  in 
the  room. 

"  Fourteen  shillings  is  bid.  Fourteen  shillings !  Are 
you  all  done  ?  Fourteen  shillings  for  a  gold  locket  and 
miniature.  Fourteen!  Once! " 

The  companion  of  Mr.  Edwards  glanced  towards 
him  with  a  meaning  look.  The  merchant,  for  a  mo- 
ment bewildered,  found  his  mind  clear  again. 

"  Twice  I"  screamed  the  auctioneer.  "  Once !  Twice ! 
Three " 

"  Twenty  shillings,"  dropped  from  the  lips  of  Mr. 
Edwards. 

"  Twenty  shillings  !  Twenty  shillings  !"  cried  the 
auctioneer  with  renewed  animation.  The  man  who 
had  been  bidding  against  the  girl  turned  quickly  to  see 
what  bold  bidder  was  in  the  field :  and  most  of  the 
company  turned  with  him.  The  young  woman  at  the 


308          HEART    HISTORIES     AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

same  time  drew  aside  her  veil  and  looked  anxioxisly 
towards  Mr.  Edwards,  who,  as  he  obtained  a  fuller  view 
of  her  face,  was  struck  with  it  as  familial*. 

"  Twenty-one  shillings,"  was  bid  in  opposition. 

"  Twenty-five,"  said  the  merchant,  promptly. 

The  first  bidder,  seeing  that  Mr.  Edwards  was  deter- 
mined to  run  against  him,  and  being  a  little  afraid  that 
he  might  be  left  with  a  ruinous  bid  on  his  hands,  de- 
clined advancing,  and  the  locket  was  assigned  to  the 
young  merchant,  who,  as  soon  as  he  had  received  it, 
turned  and  presented  it  to  the  young  woman,  saying  as 
he  did  so — 

"  It  is  yours." 

The  young  woman  caught  hold  of  it  with  an  eager 
gesture,  and  after  gazing  on  it  for  a  few  moments, 
pressed  it  to  her  lips. 

"  I  have  not  the  money  to  pay  for  it,"  she  said  in  a 
low  sad  voice,  recovering  herself  in  a  few  moments,  and 
seeking  to  return  the  miniature. 

"  It  is  yours !"  replied  Mr.  Edwards.  Then  thrust 
ing  back  the  hand  she  had  extended,  and  speaking  with 
some  emotion,  he  said — "Keep  it — keep  it,  in  Heaven's 
name !" 

And  saying  this  he  hastily  retired,  for  he  became 
conscious  that  many  eyes  were  upon  him  ;  and  he  felt 
half  ashamed  to  have  betrayed  his  weakness  before  a 


UNREDEEMED    PLEDGES.  809 

coarse,  unfeeling  crowd.  For  a  few  momtnts  he  linger- 
ed in  the  street ;  but  his  companion  not  appearing,  he 
went  on  his  way,  musing  on  the  singular  adventure  he 
had  encountered.  The  more  distinctly  he  recalled  the 
young  woman's  face,  the  more  strangely  familiar  did  it 
MUD. 

About  an  hour  afterwards,  as  Mr.  Edwards  sat  read- 
ing a  letter,  fc^e  Quaker  entered  his  store. 

"  Ah,  how  do  you  do  ?  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  said 
the  merchant,  his  manner  more  than  usually  earnest 
"  Did  you  see  anything  more  of  that  young  woman  f ' 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Quaker.  "  I  could  not  leave  one 
like  her  without  knowing  something  of  her  past  life  and 
present  circumstances.  I  think  even  you  will  hardly  be 
disposed  to  regard  her  as  an  object  unworthy  of 
interest" 

"No,  certainly  I  will  not  Her  appearance,  and  the 
circumstances  under  which  we  found  her,  are  all  in  her 
favor." 

"  But  we  turned  aside  from  the  beaten  path.  We 
ooked  into  a  by-place  to  us ;  or  we  would  not  have 
discovered  her.  She  was  not  obtrusive.  She  asked  no 
aid ;  but,  with  the  last  few  shillings  that  remained  to 
her  in  the  world,  had  gone  to  recover,  if  possible,  an 
unredeemed  pledge — the  miniature  of  her  mother,  on 
which  she  had  obtained  a  small  advance  of  money  to 


310          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIB  .2    PICTURES. 

buy  food  and  medicine  for  the  dying  original.  This  is 
but  one  of  the  thousand  cases  of  real  distress  that  are 
all  around  us.  We  could  see  them  if  we  did  but  turn 
aside  for  a  moment  into  ways  unfamiliar  to  our  feet" 

"  Did  you  learn  who  she  was,  and  anything  of  hei 
condition  ?"  asked  Mr.  Edwards. 

"  Oh  yes.  To  do  so  was  but  a  common  dictate  of 
humanity.  I  would  have  felt  it  as  a  stain  npon  my 
conscience  to  have  left  one  like  her  uncared  for  in  the 
circumstances  under  which  we  found  her." 

"  Did  you  accompany  her  home  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  went  with  her  to  the  place  she  called  her 
home — a  room  in  which  there  was  scarcely  an  article 
of  comfort — and  there  learned  the  history  of  her  past 
life  and  present  condition.  Does  thee  remember  Bel- 
grave,  who  carried  on  a  large  business  in  Maiden  Lane 
some  years  ago?" 

"  Very  well.  But,  surely  this  girl  is  not  Mary  Bel- 
grave  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  was  Mary  Belgrave  whom  we  met  at  th 
pawnbroker's  sale." 

"  Mary  Belgrave  !  Can  it  be  j  ossible  ?  I  knew  the 
family  had  become  poor  ;  but  not  so  poor  as  this  !" 

And  Mr.  Edwards,  much  disturbed  in  mind,  walked 
uneasily  about  the  floor.  But  soon  pausing,  he  said — 

u  And  so  her  mother  is  dead !" 


UNREDEEMED    PLEDGES.  311 

a  Yes.  Her  father  died  two  years  ago ;  and  her 
mother,  who  has  been  sick  ever  since,  died  last  week  in 
abject  poverty,  leaving  Mary  friendless,  in  a  world 
where  the  poor  and  needy  are  but  little  regarded.  The 
miniature  which  Mary  had  secretly  pawned  in  order  to 
supply  the  last  earthly  need  of  her  mother,  she  sought 
by  her  labor  to  redeem  ;  but  ere  she  had  been  able  to 
save  up  enough  for  the  purpose,  the  time  for  which  the 
pledge  had  been  taken,  expired,  and  the  pawn  broker 
refused  to  renew  it  Under  the  faint  hope  that  she  might 
be  able  to  buy  it  in  with  the  little  pittance  of  money 
she  had  saved,  she  attended  the  sale  where  we  found  her." 

The  merchant  had  resumed  his  seat,  and  although  he 
had  listened  attentively  to  the  Quaker's  brief  history, 
he  did  not  make  any  reply,  but  soon  became  lost  in 
thought.  From  this  he  was  interrupted  by  his  visitor, 
who  said,  as  he  moved  towards  the  door — 

"  I  will  bid  thee  good  morning,  friend  Edwards." 

"  One  moment,  if  you  please,"  said  the  merchant, 
arousing  himself,  and  speaking  earnestly,  "  Where  does 
Maty  Belgrave  live  ?" 

The  Friend  answered  the  question,  and,  as  Mr. 
Edwards  did  not  seem  inclined  to  ask  any  more,  and 
besides  fell  back  again  into  an  abstract  state,  he  wished 
him  good  morning  and  retired. 

The  poor  girl  was  sitting  alone  in  her  room  sewing, 


312          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  the  incident 
at  the  auction  room  occurred,  musing,  as  she  had  mused 
for  hours,  upon  the  unexpected  adventure.  She  did 
not,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  know  Mr. 
Edwards  when  he  first  tendered  her  the  miniature  ;  but 
when  he  said  with  peculiar  emphasis  and  earnestness, 
turning  away  as  he  spoke — "  Keep  it,  in  Heaven's 
name  !"  she  recognized  him  fully.  Since  that  moment, 
she  had  not  been  able  to  keep  the  thought  of  him  from 
her  mind.  They  had  been  intimate  friends  at  one  time ; 
but  this  was  while  they  were  both  very  young.  Then 
he  had  professed  for  her  a  boyish  passion ;  and  she 
had  loved  him  with  the  childish  fondness  of  a  young 
school-girl.  As  they  grew  older,  circumstances  sepa- 
rated them  more ;  and  though  no  hearts  were  broken 
in  consequence,  both  often  thought  of  the  early  days 
of  innocence  and  affection  with  pleasure. 

Mary  sat  sewing,  as  we  have  said,  late  in  the  after- 
noon of  the  day  on  which  the  incident  at  the  auction 
room  occurred,  when  there  was  a  tap  at  her  door.  On 
opening  it,  Mr.  Edwards  stood  before  her.  She  stepped 
back  a  pace  or  two  in  instant  surprise  and  confusion, 
and  he  advanced  into  the  desolate  room.  In  a 
moment,  however,  Mary  recovered  herself,  and  with  as 
much  self-possession  as,  under  the  circumstances,  she 


UNREDEEMED    PLEDGES.  313 

could  assume,  asked  her  unexpected  visitor  to  take  a 
chair,  which  she  offered  him. 

Mr.  Edwards  sat  down,  feeling  much  oppressed. 
Mary  was  so  changed  in  everything,  except  in  the 
purity  and  beauty  of  her  countenance,  since  he  had 
seen  her  years  before,  that  his  feelings  were  completely 
borne  down.  But  he  soon  recovered  himself  enough  to 
speak  to  her  fcf  what  was  in  his  mind.  He  had  an  old 
aunt,  who  had  been  a  friend  of  Mary's  mother,  and 
from  her  he  brought  a  message  and  an  offer  of  a  home. 
Her  carriage  was  at  the  door — it  had  been  sent  for  her 
— and  he  urged  her  to  go  with  him  immediately. 
Mary  had  no  good  reason  for  declining  so  kind  an  offer. 
It  was  a  home  that  she  most  of  all  needed ;  and  she 
could  not  refuse  one  like  this. 

"  There   is  another  unredeemed  pledge,"  said   Mr. 

Edwards,  significantly,  as  he  sat  conversing  with  Mary 

about  &  year  after  she  had  found  a  home  in  the  house 

of  his  aunt.     Allusion  had  been  made  to  the  miniature 

f  Mary's  mother. 

"  Ah !"  was  the  simple  response. 

"  Yes.  Don't  you  remember,"  and  he  took  Mary's 
unresisting  hand — "  the  pledge  of  this  hand  which  you 
made  me,  I  cannot  tell  how  many  years  ago  ?" 

"  That  was  a  mere  girlish  pledge,"  ventured  Mary 
with  drooping  eyes. 
14 


314          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  But  one  that  the  woman  will  redeem,"  said 
Edwards  confidently,  raising  the  hand  to  his  lips  at  the 
same  time,  and  kissing  it. 

Mary  leaned  involuntarily  towards  him ;  and  he 
perceiving  the  movement,  drew  his  arm  around  her, 
and  pressed  his  lips  to  her  cheek. 

It  was  no  very  long  time  afterwards  before  the  pledge 
was  redeemed. 


•  DON'T  MENTION  IT, 


"  DON'T  mention  it  again  for  your  life." 
"  No,  of  course  not.     The   least  said   about  such 
things  the  better." 

"  Don't  for  the  world.  I  have  told  you  in  perfect 
confidence,  and  you  are  the  only  one  to  whom  I  have 
breathed  it.  I  wouldn't  have  it  get  out  for  any  consid- 
eration." 

f 

"  Give  yourself  no  uneasiness.  I  shall  not  allude  to 
the  subject." 

"  I  merely  told  you  because  I  knew  you  were  a 
friend,  and  would  let  it  go  no  farther.  But  would  you 
have  thought  it  ?" 

"  I  certainly  am  very  much  surprised." 

"  So  am  I.  But  when  things  pass  right  before  your 
eyes  and  ears,  there  is  no  gainsaying  them." 


316          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  No.     Seeing  is  said  to  be  believing." 

"  Of  course  it  is." 

"  But,  Mrs.  Grimes,  are  you  very  sure  that  you  heard 
aright  F 

'*  I  am  positive,  Mrs.  Raynor.  It  occurred  only  an 
hour  ago,  and  the  whole  thing  is  distinctly  remembered. 
I  called  in  to  see  Mrs.  Comegys,  and  while  I  was  there, 
the  bundle  of  goods  came  home.  I  was  present  when 
she  opened  it,  auJ  sLe  showed  me  the  lawn  dress  it 
contained.  There  were  twelve  yards  in  it.  'I  must 
see  if  there  is  good  measure,'  she  said,  and  she  got  a 
yard-stick  and  measured  it  off.  There  were  fifteen 
yards  instead  of  twelve.  '  How  is  this  ?'  she  remarked. 
'  I  am  sure  I  paid  for  only  twelve  yards,  and  here  are 
fifteen.'  The  yard-stick  was  applied  again.  There  was 
no  mistake  ;  the  lawn  measured  fifteen  yards.  '  What 
are  you  going  to  do  with  the  surplus  ?'  I  asked. 
'  Keep  it,  of  course,'  said  Mrs.  Comegys.  '  There  is 
just  enough  to  make  little  Julia  a  frock.  Won't  she 
look  sweet  in  it  ?'  I  was  so  confounded  that  I  could'nt 
Bay  a  word.  Indeed,  I  could  hardly  look  her  in  the 
face.  At  first  I  thought  of  calling  her  attention  to  tho 
dishonesty  of  the  act ;  but  then  I  reflected  that,  as  it 
was  none  of  my  business,  I  might  get  her  ill-will  for 
meddling  in  what  didn't  concern  me." 


DONT   MENTION    IT.  317 

u  And  you  really  think,  then,  that  she  meant  to  keep 
the  three  yards  without  paying  for  them  F' 

"  Oh,  certainly  !  But  then  I  wouldn't  say  anything 
about  it  for  the  world.  I  wouldn't  name  it,  on  any 
consideration.  Of  course  you  will  not  repeat  it." 

"No.  If  I  cannot  find  any  good  to  tell  of  my 
friends,  I  try  to  refrain  from  saying  anything  evil." 

"  A  most-excellent  rule,  Mrs.  Raynor,  and  one  that  I 
always  follow.  I  never  speak  evil  of  my  friends,  for  it 
always  does  more  harm  than  good.  No  one  can  say 
that  I  ever  tried  to  injure  another." 

"  I  hope  Mrs.  Cornegys  thought  better  of  the  matter, 
upon  reflection,"  said  Mrs.  Raynor. 

"  So  do  I.  But  I  am  afraid  not.  Two  or  three 
little  things  occur  to  me  now,  that  I  have  seen  in  my 
intercourse  with  her,  which  go  to  satisfy  my  mind  that 
her  moral  perceptions  are  not  the  best  in  the  world. 
Mrs.  Comegys  is  a  pleasant  friend,  and  much  esteemed 
by  every  one.  It  could  do  no  good  to  spread  this 
matter  abroad,  but  harm." 

After  repeating  over  and  over  again  her  injunction  to 
Mrs.  Raynor  not  to  repeat  a  word  of  what  she  had  told 
her,  Mrs.  Grimes  bade  this  lady,  upon  whom  she  had 
called,  good  morning,  and  went  on  her  way.  Ten 
minutes  after,  she  was  in  the  parlor  of  an  acquaintance, 
named  Mrs.  Florence,  entertaining  her  with  the  gossip 


318          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

she  had  picked  up  since  their  last  meeting.  She  had 
not  been  there  long,  before,  lowering  her  voice,  she 
said  in  a  confidential  way — 

"  I  was  at  Mrs.  Comegys'  to-day,  and  saw  something 
hat  amazed  me  beyond  every  thing." 

"  Indeed  !" 

"  Yes.  You  will  be  astonished  when  you  hear  it. 
Suppose  you  had  purchased  a  dress  and  paid  for  a  cer- 
tain number  of  yards ;  and  when  the  dress  was  sent 
home,  you  should  find  that  the  storekeeper  had  made  a 
mistake  and  sent  you  three  or  four  yards  more  than 
you  had  settled  for.  What  would  you  do  f ' 

"  Send  it  back,  of  course." 

"  Of  course,  so  say  I.  To  act  differently  would  not 
be  honest.  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

M  It  would  not  be  honest  for  me." 

"  No,  nor  for  any  one.  Now,  would  you  have 
believed  it  ?  Mrs.  Comegys  not  only  thinks  but  act* 
differently." 

"  You  must  be  mistaken,  certainly,  Mrs.  Grimes  " 

"  Seeing  is  believing,  Mrs.  Florence." 

"  So  it  is  said,  but  J  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes 
against  Mrs.  Comegys'  integrity  of  character.  I  think 
I  ought  to  know  her  well,  for  we  have  been  very  inti- 
mate for  years." 


DON'T  MENTION  IT.  819 

"  And  I  thought  I  knew  her,  too.  But  it  seems  that 
I  was  mistaken." 

Mrs.  Grimes  then  repeated  the  story  of  the  lawn 
dress. 

M  Gracious  me  !  Can  it  be  possible  ?"'  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Florence.  u  I  can  hardly  credit  it." 

M  It  occurred  just  as  I  tell  you.  But  Mrs.  Florence, 
you  rnusn't  tell  it  again  for  the  world.  I  have  men- 
tioned it  to  you  in  the  strictest  confidence.  But  I  neea 
hardly  say  this  to  you,  for  I  know  how  discreet  you 
are." 

"  I  shall  not  mention  it." 

"It  could  do  no  good." 

"  None  in  the  world." 

"  Isn't  it  surprising,  that  a  woman  who  is  so  well  off 
in  the  world  as  Mrs.  Comegys,  should  stoop  to  a  petty 
act  like  this  ?" 

"  It  is,  certainly." 

"  Perhaps  there  is  something  wrong  here,"  and  Mrs. 
Grimes  placed  her  finger  to  her  forehead  and  looked 

ber. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  the  friend. 

"  You've  heard  of  people's  having  a  dishonest  mono- 
mania. Don't  you  remember  the  case  of  Mrs.  Y ?" 

"Very  well." 

"  She  had  every  thing  that  heart  could  desire.     Her 


320          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE   PICTURES. 

husband  was  rich,  and  let  her  have  as  much  money  as 
she  wanted.  I  wish  we  could  all  say  that,  Mrs.  Flor- 
ence, don't  you  ?" 

"It  would  be  very  pleasant,  certainly,  to  have  as 
much  money  as  we  wanted.* 

"  But,  notwithstanding  all  this,  Mrs.  Y had  such 

a  propensity  to  take  things  not  her  own,  that  she  never 
vent  into  a  dry  goods  store  without  purloining  some- 
thing, and  rarely  took  tea  with  a  friend  without  slip- 
ping a  teaspoon  into  her  pocket.  Mr.  Y had  a 

great  deal  of  trouble  with  her,  and,  in  several  cases, 
'paid  handsomely  to  induce  parties  disposed  to  prose- 
cute her  for  theft,  to  let  the  matter  drop.  Now  do  you 
know  that  it  has  occurred  to  me  that,  perhaps,  Mm. 
Comegys  is  afflicted  in  this  way  ?  I  shouldn't  at  all 
wonder  if  it  were  so." 

"  Hardly." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is  as  I  suspect.  A  number  of  suspi- 
cious circumstances  have  happened  when  she  has  been 
about,  that  this  would  explain.  But  for  your  life,  Mi's. 
Florence,  don't  repeat  this  to  any  mortal !" 

"  I  shall  certainly  not  speak  of  it,  Mrs.  Grimes.  It 
is  too  serious  a  matter.  I  wish  I  had  not  heard  of  it, 
for  I  can  never  feel  toward  Mrs.  Comegys  as  I  hare 
done.  She  is  a  very  pleasant  woman,  and  one  with 


DON'T  MENTION  IT.  321 

whom  it  is  always  agreeable  and  profitable  to  spend  an 
hour." 

"  It  is  a  little  matter,  after  all,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Grimes,  and,  perhaps,  we  treat  it  too  seriously." 

"  We  should  never  think  lightly  of  dishonest  prac 
tices,  Mrs.  Grimes.  Whoever  is  dishonest  in  little 
things,  will  be  dishonest  in  great  things,  if  a  good 
opportunity-offer.  Mrs.  Comegys  can  never  be  to  me 
what  she  has  been.  That  is  impossible." 

"  Of  course  you  will  not  speak  of  it  again." 

"  You  need  have  no  fear  of  that." 

A  few  days  after,  Mrs.  Ray  nor  made  a  call  upon  a 
friend,  who  said  to  her, 

"  Have  you  heard  about  Mrs.  Comegys  ?" 

"  What  about  her  ?" 

"  I  supposed  you  knew  it.  Pve  heard  it  from  half 
a  dozen  persons.  It  is  said  that  Perkins,  through  a 
mistake  of  one  of  his  clerks,  sent  her  home  some  fifteen 
or  twenty  yards  of  lawn  more  than  she  had  paid  for,  and 
that,  instead  of  sending  it  back,  she  kept  it  and  made 
it  up  for  her  children.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a 
trick  for  an  honest  woman  ?" 

u  I  don't  think  any  honest  woman  would  be  guilty 
of  such  an  act.  Yes,  I  heard  of  it  a  few  days  ago  as  a 
great  secret,  and  have  not  mentioned  it  to  a  living 

soul." 

14* 


322          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    UFE    PICTUKES. 

"  Secret  ?  bless  me !  it  is  no  secret  It  is  in  every 
one's  mouth." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  I  must  say  that  Mrs.  Grimes  baa 
been  very  indiscreet." 

"  Mrs.  Grimes  !  Did  it  come  from  her  in  the  first 
place  r 

"  Yes.  She  told  me  that  she  was  present  when  the 
lawn  came  home,  and  saw  Mrs.  Comegys  measure  it, 
and  heard  her  say  that  she  meant  to  keep  it." 

"  Which  she  has  done.  For  I  saw  her  in  the  street, 
yesterday,  with  a  beautiful  new  lawn,  and  her  little 
Julia  was  with  her,  wearing  one  precisely  like  it." 

"  How  any  woman  can  do  so  is  more  than  I  can 
understand." 

"So  it  is,  Mrs.  Raynor.  Just  to  think  of  dressing 
your  child  up  in  a  frock  as  good  as  stolen  !  Isn't  it 
dreadful  ?" 

"  It  is,  indeed !" 

"Mrs.  Comegys  is  not  an  honest  woman.  That  is 
clear.  I  am  told  that  this  is  not  the  first  trick  of  the 
kind  of  which  she  has  been  guilty.  They  say  that  she 
has  a  natural  propensity  to  take  things  that  are  not  her 
own." 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  that." 

"  Nor  can  I.  But  it's  no  harder  to  believe  this  than 
to  believe  that  she  would  cheat  Perkins  out  of  fifteen 


DON'T  MENTION  rr.  323 

01  twenty  yards  of  lawn.  It's  a  pity  ;  for  Mrs. 
Comegys,  in  every  thing  else,  is  certainly  a  very  nice 
woman.  In  fact,  I  don't  know  any  one  I  visit  with  so 
much  pleasure." 

Thus  the  circle  of  detraction  widened,  until  there 
was  scarcely  a  friend  or  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Comegys, 
near  or  remote,  who  had  not  heard  of  her  having 
cheated  a  dry  goods  dealer  out  of  several  yards  of 
lawn.  Throe,  it  had  first  been  alleged  ;  but  the  most 
common  version  of  the  story  made  it  fifteen  or  twenty. 
Meantime,  Mrs.  Comegys  remained  in  entire  ignorance 
«f  what  was  alleged  against  her,  although  she  noticed 
in  two  or  three  of  her  acquaintances,  a  trifling  coldness 
that  struck  her  as  rather  singular. 

One  day  her  husband,  seeing  that  she  looked  quite 
sober,  said  — 

"  You  seem  quite  dull  to-day,  dear.  Don't  you  feel 
well?" 

"  Yes,  I  feel  as  well  as  usual,  in  body." 

"  But  not  in  mind  ?" 

"  I  do  not  feel  quite  comfortable  in  mind,  certainly, 
though  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  serious  cause  of 
Uneasiness." 

"  Though  a  slight  cause  exists.     May  I  ask  what  it 


It  ia  nothing  more  nor  less  than  that  I  was  coolly 


i 


324         HEART    HISTORIES   AND   LIFE   PICTURES. 

cut  by  an  old  friend  to-day,  whom  I  met  in  a  store  on 
Chesnut  street  And  as  she  is  a  woman  that  I  highly 
esteem,  both  for  the  excellence  of  her  character,  and 
the  agreeable  qualities,  as  a  friend,  that  she  possesses. 
I  cannot  but  feel  a  little  bad  about  it.  If  she  were  one 
of  that  capricious  class  who  get  offended  with  you, 
once  a  month,  for  no  just  cause  whatever,  I  should  not 
care  a  fig.  But  Mrs.  Markle  is  a  woman  of  character, 
good  sense  and  good  feeling,  whose  friendship  I  have 
always  prized." 

"  Was  it  Mrs.  Markle  ?"  said  the  husband,  with 
some  surprise. 

"  Yes." 

"  What  can  possibly  be  the  cause  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell" 

"  Have  you  thought  over  every  thing  P 

"  Yes,  I  have  turned  and  turned  the  matter  in  my 
mind,  but  can  imagine  no  reason  why  she,  of  all  others, 
could  treat  me  coolly." 

"  Have  you  never  spoken  of  her  in  a  way  to  have 
your  words  misinterpreted  by  some  evil-minded  per- 
son— Mrs.  Grimes,  for  instance — whose  memory,  or 
moral  sense,  one  or  the  other,  is  very  dull  ?" 

"  I  have  never  spoken  of  her  to  any  one,  except  in 
terms  of  praise.  I  could  not  do  otherwise,  for  I  look 
her  as  one  of  the  most  faultless  women  I  know." 


DON'T  MENTION  IT.  325 

"  She  has  at  least  shown  that  she  possesses  one  fault.* 

«*  What  is  that  I" 

"  If  she  has  heard  any  thing  against  you  of  a  charac- 
ter so  serious  as  to  make  her  wish  to  give  up  your  ac- 
quaintance, she  should  at  least  have  afforded  you  the 
chance  of  defending  yourself  before  condemning  you." 

u  I  think  that,  myself." 

"  It  may-be  that  she  did  not  see  you,"  Mr.  Comegys 
suggested. 

"  She  looked  me  in  the  face,  and  nodded  with  cold 
formality." 

u  Perhaps  her  mind  was  abstracted." 

"  It  might  have  been  so.  Mine  would  have  been 
very  abstracted,  indeed,  to  keep  me  from  a  more  cor- 
dial recognition  of  a  friend." 

"  How  would  it  do  to  call  and  see  her  ?" 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  that.  But  my  feelings 
naturally  oppose  it.  I  am  not  conscious  of  having  done 
any  thing  to  merit  a  withdrawal  of  the  friendly  senti- 
nents  she  has  held  towards  me  ;  still,  if  she  wishes  to 
withdraw  them,  my  pride  says,  let  her  do  so." 

u  But  pride,  you  know,  is  not  always  the  best  ad- 
viser." 

u  No.  Perhaps  the  less  regard  we  pay  to  its  prompt- 
ings, the  better." 

"  I  think  so  " 


826          HEART    HISTORIES   AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  It  is  rather  awkward  to  go  to  a  person  and  ask 
why  you  have  been  treated  coldly." 

"  I  know  it  is.  But  in  a  choice  of  evils,  is  it  not 
always  wisest  to  choose  the  least  ?" 

"  But  is  any  one's  bad  opinion  of  you,  if  it  be  not 
correctly  formed,  an  evil  ?" 

"  Certainly  it  is." 

"I  don't  know.  I  have  a  kind  of  independence 
about  me  which  sap,  'Let  people  think  what  they 
please,  so  you  are  conscious  of  no  wrong.'  " 

"  Indifference  to  the  world's  good  or  bad  opinion  is 
all  very  well,"  replied  the  husband,  "  if  the  world  will 
misjudge  us.  Still,  as  any  thing  that  prejudices  the 
minds  of  people  against  us,  tends  to  destroy  our  useful- 
ness, it  is  our  duty  to  take  all  proper  care  of  our  repu- 
tations, even  to  the  sacrifice  of  a  little  feeling  in  doing 
so." 

Thus  argued  with  by  her  husband,  Mrs.  Comegys, 
after  turning  the  matter  over  in  her  mind,  finally  con- 
cluded to  go  and  see  Mrs.  Markle.  It  was  a  pretty 
hard  trial  for  her,  but  urged  on  by  a  sense  of  right,  she 
called  upon  her  two  or  three  days  after  having  been 
%  treated  so  coldly.  She  sent  up  her  name  by  the  ser- 
vant In  about  five  minutes,  Mrs.  Markle  descended  to 
the  parlor,  where  her  visitor  was  awaiting  her,  and  met 
hei  in  a  reserved  and  formal  manner,  that  was  alto 


DON  T   MENTION   IT. 

getter  unlike  her  former  cordiality.  It  was  as  much  aa 
Mrs.  Comegys  could  do  to  keep  from  retiring  instantly, 
and  without  a  word,  from  the  house.  But  she  com- 
pelled herself  to  go  through  with  what  she  had  begun 
Mrs.  Markle  did,  indeed,  offer  her  hand ;  or  rather  the 
tips  of  her  fingers;  which  Mrs.  Comegys,  in  mere 
reciprocation  of  the  formality,  accepted.  Then  came 
an  embarrassing  pause,  after  which  the  latter  said — 

"  I  see  that  I  was  not  mistaken  in  supposing  that 
there  was  a  marked  coldness  in  your  manner  at  our  last 
meeting." 

Mrs.  Markle  inclined  her  head  slightly. 
"  Of  course  there  is  a  cause  for  this.     May  I,  in  jus- 
tice to  myself  as  well  as  others,  inquire  what  it  is  ?" 

"  I  did  not  suppose  you  would  press  an  inquiry  on 
the  subject,"  replied  Mrs.  Markle.  "  But  as  you  have 
done  so,  you  are,  of  course,  entitled  to  an  answer." 

There  came  another  pause,  after  which,  with  a  dis- 
turbed voice,  Mrs.  Markle  said — 

"  For  some  time,  I  have  heard  a  rumor  in  regard  to 
you,  that  I  could  not  credit  Of.  late  it  has  been  s« 
often  repeated  that  I  felt  it  to  be  my  duty  to  ascertain 
its  truth  or  falsehood.  On  tracing,  with  some  labor; 
the  report  to  its  origin,  I  an  grieved  to  find  that  it  ia 
too  true." 


328         HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE   PICTURES. 

"  Please  say  what  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Comegys,  in  a 
firm  voice. 

"  It  is  said  that  you  bought  a  dress  at  a  dry  goods 
store  in  this  city,  and  that  on  its  being  sent  home,  there 
proved  to  be  some  yards  more  in  the  piece  of  goods 
than  you  paid  for,  and  that  instead  of  returning  what 
was  not  your  own,  you  kept  it  and  had  it  made  up  for 
one  of  your  children." 

The  face  of  Mrs.  Comegys  instantly  became  like 
crimson ;  and  she  turned  her  head  away  to  hide  the 
confusion  into  which  this  unexpected  allegation  had 
thrown  her.  As  soon  as  she  could  command  her  voice, 
she  said — 

"You  will,  of  course,  give  me  the  author  of  this 
charge." 

"  You  are  entitled  to  know,  I  suppose,"  replied  Mrs. 
Markle.  "The  person  who  originated  this  report  is 
Mrs.  Grimes.  And  she  says  that  she  was  present  when 
the  dress  was  sent  home.  That  you  measured  it  in  her 
presence,  and  that,  finding  there  were  several  yards 
over,  you  declared  your  intention  to  keep  it  and  make 
of  it  a  frock  for  your  little  girl.  And,  moreover,  that 
she  saw  Julia  wearing  a  frock  afterwards,  exactly  like 
the  pattern  of  the  one  you  had,  which  she  well  remem- 
bers. This  seems  to  me  pretty  conclusive  evidence. 
At  least  it  was  so  to  my  mind,  and  I  acted  accordingly." 


DON'T  MENTION  rr.  329 

Mrs.  Comegys  sat  for  the  full  space  of  a  minute  with 
her  eyes  upon  the  floor,  without  speaking.  When  she 
looked  up,  the  flush  that  had  covered  her  face  had  gone. 
It  was  very  pale,  instead.  Rising  from  her  chair,  she 
bowed  formally,  and  without  saying  a  word,  withdrew. 

"  Ah  me  !  Isn't  it  sad  ?w  murmured  Mrs.  Markle, 
as  she  heard  the  street  door  close  upon  her  visitor. 
"So  mucH-that  is  agreeable  and  excellent,  all  dimmed 
by  the  want  of  principle.  It  seems  hardly  credible  that 
a  woman,  with  every  thing  she  needs,  could  act  dishon- 
estly for  so  small  a  matter.  A  few  yards  of  lawn 
against  integrity  and  character  !  What  a  price  to  set 
upon  virtue !" 

Not  more  than  half  an  hour  after  the  departure  of 
Mrs.  Comegys,  Mrs.  Grimes  called  in  to  see  Mrs.  Markle. 

"  I  hope,"  she  said,  shortly  after  she  was  seated, 
"  that  you  won't  say  a  word  about  what  I  told  you 
a  few  days  ago ;  I  shouldn't  have  opened  my  lips  on 
the  subject  if  you  hadn't  asked  me  about  it.  I  only 
mentioned  it  in  the  first  place  to  a  friend  in  whom  I 
had  the  greatest  confidence  in  the  world.  She  has  told 
some  one,  very  improperly,  for  it  was  imparted  to  her  as 
a  secret,  and  in  that  way  it  has  been  spread  abroad.  1 
regret  it  exceedingly,  for  I  would  be  the  last  person  in 
the  world  to  say  a  word  to  injure  any  one.  I  am  par- 
ticularly guarded  in  this." 


S30         HEART    HISTORIES     AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

**  If  it's  the  truth,  Mrs.  Grimes,  I  don't  see  that  you 
need  be  so  anxious  about  keeping  it  a  secret,"  returned 
Mrs.  Markle. 

"  The  truth  !  Do  you  think  I  would  utter  a  word 
that  was  not  true  ?" 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  infer  that  you  would.  I  believe 
that  what  you  said  in  regard  to  Mrs.  Comegys  was  the 
fact." 

"  It  certainly  was.  But  then,  it  will  do  no  good  to 
make  a  disturbance  about  it.  What  has  made  me  call 
in  to  see  you  is  this ;  some  one  told  me  that,  in  conse- 
quence of  this  matter,  you  had  dropped  the  acquain- 
tance of  Mrs.  Comegys." 

"  It  is  true ;  I  cannot  associate  on  intimate  terms 
with  a  woman  who  lacks  honest  principles." 

"  But  don't  you  see  that  this  will  bring  matters  to  a 
head,  and  that  I  shall  be  placed  in  a  very  awkward 
position  ?" 

"  You  are  ready  to  adhere  to  your  statement  in  re- 
gard to  Mrs.  Comegys?" 

"  Oh,  certainly ;  I  have  told  nothing  but  the  truth. 
But  still,  you  can  see  that  it  will  make  me  feel  exceed- 
ingly unpleasant" 

"  Things  of  this  kind  are  never  very  agreeable,  I 
know,  Mrs.  Grimes.  Still  we  must  act  as  we  think 
right,  let  what  jvill  follow.  Mrs.  Comegys  has  already 


DON'T  MEKTION  IT.  381 

called  upon  me  to  ask  an  explanation  of  my  conduct 
towards  her." 

"  She  has  !"  Mrs.  Grimes  seemed  sadly  distressed. 
"  What  did  you  say  to  her  V 

"  I  told  her  just  what  I  had  heard." 

"Did  she  ask  your  author?"  Mrs.  Grimes  was 
almost  pale  with  suspense. 

"  She  did? 

"  Of  course  you  did  not  mention  my  name  P* 

"  She  asked  the  author  of  the  charge,  and  I  named 
you." 

"  Oh  dear,  Mrs.  Markle !  I  wish  you  hadn't  done 
that.  I  shall  be  involved  in  a  world  of  trouble,  and 
get  the  reputation  of  a  tattler  and  mischief-maker. 
What  did  she  say  ?" 

**  Not  one  word." 

"She  didn't  deny  it?" 

"No." 

u  Of  course  she  could  not.  Well,  that  is  some  satis- 
faction at  least.  She  might  have  denied  it,  and  tried 
to  make  me  out  a  liar,  and  there  would  have  been 
plenty  to  believe  her  word  against  mine.  I  am  glad 
she  didn't  deny  it  She  didn't  say  a  word !" 

"No." 

"Did  she  look  guilty  T 


332          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  You  would  have  thought  so,  if  you  had  seen  her." 

"What  did  she  do?" 

"  She  sat  with  her  eyes  upon  the  floor  for  some  time, 
and  then  rose  up,  and  without  uttering  a  word,  left  the 
house." 

"  I  wish  she  had  said  something.  It  would  have 
been  a  satisfaction  to  know  what  she  thought.  But  I 
suppose  the  poor  woman  was  so  confounded,  that  she 
didn't  know  what  to  say." 

"  So  it  appeared  to  me.  She  was  completely  stun- 
ned. I  really  pitied  her  from  my  heart.  But  want  of 
principle  should  never  be  countenanced.  If  we  are  to 
have  social  integrity,  we  must  mark  with  appropriate 
condemnation  all  deviations  therefrom.  It  was  exceed- 
ingly painful,  but  the  path  of  duty  was  before  me,  and 
I  walked  in  it  without  faltering." 

Mrs.  Grimes  was  neither  so  clear-sighted,  nor  so  well 
satisfied  with  what  she  had  done,  as  all  this.  She  left 
the  house  of  Mrs.  Markle  feeling  very  unhappy. 
Although  she  had  been  using  her  little  unruly  member 
against  Mrs.  Comegys  with  due  industry,  she  was  all 
the  while  on  the  most  friendly  terms  with  her,  visiting 
at  her  house  and  being  visited.  It  was  only  a  few  days 
before  that  she  had  taken  tea  and  spent  an  evening  with 
her.  Not  that  Mrs.  Grimes  was  deliberately  hypocriti- 
cal, but  she  had  a  free  tongue,  and,  like  too  many  in 


DON  T   MENTION    IT.  333 

society,  more  cautious  about  what  they  said  than  she, 
much  better  pleased  to  see  evil  than  good  in  a  neigh- 
bour. There  are  very  few  of  us,  perhaps,  who  have 
not  something  of  this  fault — an  exceedingly  bad  fault,  by 
the  way.  It  seems  to  arise  from  a  consciousness  of  our 
own  imperfections,  and  the  pleasure  we  feel  in  making 
the  discovery  that  others  are  as  bad,  if  not  worse  than 
we  are. 

Two  days  after  Mrs.  Comegys  had  called  on  Mrs. 
Markle  to  ask  for  explanations,  the  latter  received  a 
note  in  the  following  words  : 

"  MADAM. — I  have  no  doubt  you  have  acted  according 
to  your  own  views  of  right,  in  dropping  as  suddenly  as 
you  have  done,  the  acquaintance  of  an  old  friend. 
Perhaps,  if  you  had  called  upon  me  and  asked 
explanations,  you  might  have  acted  a  little  differently. 
My  present  object  in  addressing  you  is  to  ask,  as  a 
matter  of  justice,  that  you  will  call  at  my  house  to- 
morrow at  twelve  o'clock.  I  think  that  I  am  entitled 
to  speak  a  word  in  my  own  defence.  After  you  hav 
heard  that,  I  shall  not  complain  of  any  course  you  may 
think  it  right  to  pursue.  ANNA  COMEGYS." 

Mrs.  Markle  could  do  no  less  than  call  as  she  had 
been  desired  to.  At  twelve  o'clock  she  rang  the  bell  at 
Mrs.  Comegy's  door,  and  was  shown  into  the  parlor, 


334          HEART    HISTORIES    AKD    LIFE   PICTURES. 

where,  to  her  no  small  surprise,  she  found  about  twenty 
ladies,  most  of  them  acquaintances,  assembled,  Mrs. 
Grimes  among  the  number.  In  about  ten  minutes 
Mrs.  Comegys  came  into  the  room,  her  countenance 
rearing  a  calm  but  sober  aspect.  She  bowed  slightly, 
but  was  not  cordial  toward,  or  familiar  with,  any  one 
present.  Without  a  pause  she  said — 

•'  Ladies,  I  have  learned  within  a  few  days,  very 
greatly  to  my  surprise  and  grief,  that  there  is  a  report 
circulated  among  my  frieitds,  injurious  to  my  character 
as  a  woman  of  honest  principles.  I  have  taken  some 
pains  to  ascertain  those  with  whom  the  report  is 
familiar,  and  have  invited  all  such  to  be  here  to-day.  I 
learn  from  several  sources,  that  the  report  originated 
with  Mrs.  Grimes,  and  that  she  has  been  very  indus- 
trious in  circulating  it  to  my  injury." 

"  Perhaps  you  wrong  Mrs.  Grimes  there,"  spoke  up 
Mrs.  Markle.  "  She  did  not  mention  it  to  me  until  I 
inquired  of  her  if  the  report  was  true.  And  then  she 
told  me  that  she  had  neve  told  it  but  to  a  single 
person,  in  confidence,  and  that  she  had  inadvertently 
alluded  to  it,  and  thus  it  became  a  common  report- 
So  I  think  that  Mrs.  Grimes  cannot  justly  be  charged 
with  having  sought  to  circulate  the  matter  to  your 
injury." 

"  Very  well,  we  will  see  how  far  that  statement  » 


*       DON'T  MENTION  IT.  835 

correct,"  said  Mrs.  Comegys.  "  Did  she  mention  the 
Bubject  to  you,  Mrs.  Ray  nor  ?" 

"  She  did,"  replied  Mrs.  Raynor.  "But  in  strict 
confidence,  and  enjoining  it  upon  me  not  to  mention  it 
to  any  one,  as  she  had  no  wish  to  injure  you." 

•  Did  you  tell  it  to  any  one  ?" 

"  No.  It  was  but  a  little  while  afterward  that  it  was 
told  to  me  by-some  one  else." 

u  Was  it  mentioned  to  you,  Mrs.  Florence  ?"  pro- 
ceeded Mrs.  Comegys,  turning  to  another  of  the  ladies 
present 

"  It  was,  ma'am." 

"  By  Mrs.  Grimes  T 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  In  confidence,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  I  was  requested  to  say  nothing  about  it,  for  fear 
that  it  might  create  an  unfavorable  impression  in  regard 
to  you." 

"  Very  well ;  there  are  two  already.  How  was  it  in 
vour  case,  Mrs.  Wheeler  ?" 

This  lady  answered  as  the  others  had  done.  The 
question  was  then  put  to  each  lady  in  the  room,  when 
it  appeared  that  out  of  the  twenty,  fifteen  had  received 
their  information  on  the  subject  from  Mrs.  Grimes,  and 
that  upon  every  one  secrecy  had  been  enjoined,  although 
not  in  every  case  maintained. 


836          HEART   HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    Plf&TURES. 

"  So  it  seems,  Mrs.  Markle,"  said  Mrs.  Comegys, 
after  she  had  finished  her  inquiries,  "  that  Mrs.  Grimes 
has,  as  I  alleged,  industriously  circulated  this  matter  to 
my  injury."  « 

"It  certainly  appears  so,"  returned  Mrs.  Markle, 
coldly. 

Thus  brought  into  a  corner,  Mrs.  Grimes  bristled  up 
like  certain  animals,  which  are  good  at  running  and 
skulking,  but  which,  when  fairly  trapped,  fight  des- 
perately. 

u  Telling  it  to  a  thousand  is  not  half  as  bad  as  doing 
it,  Mrs.  Comegys,"  she  said,  angrily.  "  You  needn't 
try  to  screen  yourself  from  the  consequences  of  your 
wrong  doings,  by  raising  a  hue  and  cry  against  me. 
Go  to  the  fact,  madam  !  Go  to  the  fact,  and  stand 
alongside  of  what  you  have  done." 

"  I  have  no  hesitation  about  doing  that^  Mrs.  Grimes. 
Pray,  what  have  I  done  3" 

"  It  is  very  strange  thai  you  should  ask,  madam." 

"  But  I  am  charged,  I  learn,  with  having  committed 
a  crime  against  society  ;  and  you  are  the  author  of  the 
charge.  What  is  the  crime  ?" 

"  If  it  is  any  satisfaction  to  you,  I  will  tell  you.  I 
was  at  your  house  when  the  pattern  of  the  lawn  dress 
you  now  have  on  was  sent  home.  You  measured  it 


«     DON'T  MENTION  rr.  337 

in  my  presence,  and  there  were  several  yards  in  it  more 
than  you  had  bought  and  paid  for" — 

"  How  many  ?" 

Mrs.  Grimes  looked  confused,  and  stammered  out, 

"  I  do  not  now  exactly  remember." 

u  How  many  did  she  tell  you,  Mrs.  Raynor  ?" 

"  She  said  there  were  three  yards." 

"And  you,-jklrs.  Fisher  ?" 

tt  Six  yards." 

"  And  you,  Mrs.  Florence  ?" 

"  Fifteen  yards,  I  think." 

"  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Florence  ;  you  are  entirely  mistaKen. 
You  misunderstood  me,"  said  Mrs.  Grimes,  in  extreme 
perturbation. 

"  Perhaps  so.  But  that  is  my  oresent  impression," 
replied  Mrs.  Florence. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Mrs.  Comegys.  "  Mrs.  Grimes 
can  now  go  on  with  her  answer  to  my  inquiry.  I  will 
remark,  however,  that  the  overplus  was  just  two  yards." 

M  Then  you  admit  that  the  lawn  overran  what  you 
had  paid  for?" 

"  Certainly  I  do.     It  overran  just  two  yards." 

"  Very  well.  One  yard  or  a  dozen,  the  principle  is 
just  the  same.  I  asked  you  what  you  meant  to  do  with 
it,  and  you  replied,  '  keep  it,  of  course.'  Do  you  deny 

that?" 

15 


838          HEART    HISTORIES   AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

"  No.  It  is  very  likely  that  I  did  say  so,  for  it  was 
my  intention  to  keep  it." 

"  Without  paying  for  it  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Markle. 

Mrs.  Comegys  looked  steadily  into  the  face  of  her 
nterrogator  for  some  moments,  a  flush  upon  her  cheek, 
an  indignant  light  in  her  eye.  Then,  without  replying 
to  the  question,  she  stepped  to  the  wall  and  rang  the 
parlor  belL  In  a  few  moments  a  servant  came  in. 

"  Ask  the  gentleman  in  the  dining-room  if  he  will  be 
kind  enough  to  step  here."  In  a  little  while  a  step  was 
heard  along  the  passage,  and  then  a  young  man  en- 
tered. 

M  You  are  a  clerk  in  Mr.  Perkins'  store  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Comegys. 

u  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  You  remember  my  buying  this  lawn  dress  at  your 
store  T 

"  Very  well,  ma'am.  I  should  forget  a  good  many 
incidents  before  I  forgot  that." 

"  What  impressed  it  upon  your  memory  ?* 

"  This  circumstance.  I  was  very  much  hurried  at 
the  time  when  you  bought  it,  and  in  measuring  it  off, 
'made  a  mistake  against  myself  of  two  yards.  There 
should  have  been  four  dresses  in  the  piece.  One  had 
been  sold  previous  to  yours.  Not  long  after  your  dress 
had  been  sent  home,  two  ladies  came  into  the  store  and 


DON'T  MENTION  rr;  339 

chose  each  a  dress  from  the  pattern.  On  measuring 
the  piece,  I  discovered  that  it  was  two  yards  short,  and 
lost  the  sale  of  the  dresses  in  consequence,  as  the  ladies 
wished  them  alike.  An  hour  afterward  you  called  to 
say  that  I  had  made  a  mistake  and  sent  you  home  two 
yards  more  than  you  had  paid  for ;  but  that  as  you 
liked  the  pattern  very  much,  you  would  keep  it  and 
buy  two  yards  more  for  a  dress  for  your  little  girl." 

"  Yes ;  that  is  exactly  the  truth  in  regard  .to  the 

dress.  I  am  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  S ,  for  the 

trouble  I  have  given  you.  I  will  not  keep  you  any 
longer." 

The  young  man  bowed  and  withdrew. 

The  ladies  immediately  gathered  around  Mrs.  Come- 
gys,  with  a  thousand  apologies  for  having  for  a  moment 
entertained  the  idea  that  she  had  been  guilty  of  wrong, 
while  Mrs.  Grimes  took  refuge  in  a  flood  of  tears. 

"  I  have  but  one  cause  of  complaint  against  you  all," 
said  the  injured  lady,  "  and  it  is  this.  A  charge  of  so 
serious  a'nature  should  never  have  been  made  a  subject 
of  common  report  without  my  being  offered  a  chance 
to  defend  myself.  As  for  Mrs.  Grimes,  I  can't  readily 
understand  how  she  fell  into  the  error  she  did.  But 
she  never  would  have  fallen  into  it  if  she  had  not  been 
more  willing  to  think  evil  than  good  of  her  friends.  I 
do  not  say  this  to  hurt  her,  but  to  state  a  truth  that  it 


340          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

may  be  well  for  her,  and  perhaps  some  of  the  rest  of  us, 
to  lay  to  heart.  It  is  a  serious  thing  to  speak  evil  of 
another,  and  should  never  be  done  except  on  the  most 
unequivocal  evidence.  It  never  occurred  to  me  to  say 
to  Mrs.  Grimes  that  I  would  pay  for  the  lawn ;  that  I 
supposed  she  or  any  one  else  would  have  inferred,  when 
I  said  I  would  keep  it" 

A  great  deal  was  said  by  all  parties,  and  many 
apologies  were  made.  Mrs.  Grimes  was  particularly 
humble,  and  begged  all  present  to  forgive  and  forget 
what  was  past.  She  knew,  she  said,  that  she  was  apt 
to  talk ;  it  was  a  failing  with  her  which  she  would  try 
to  correct  But  that  she  didn't  mean  to  do  any  one 
harm. 

As  to  the  latter  averment,  it  can  be  believed  or  not 
as  suits  every  one's  fancy.  All  concerned  in  this  aftair 
felt  that  they  had  received  a  lesson  they  would  not  soon 
forget.  And  we  doubt  not,  that  some  of  our  readers 
might  lay  it  to  heart  with  great  advantage  to  them- 
selves and  benefit  to  others. 


THE  HEIRESS 


KATE  DARLINGTON  was  a  belle  and  a  beauty ;  and 
bad,  as  might  be  supposed,  not  a  few  admirers.  Some 
were  attracted  by  her  person ;  some  by  her  winning 
manners,  and  not  a  few  by  the  wealth  of  her  family. 
But  though  sweet  Kate  was  both  a  belle  and  a  beauty, 
uhe  was  a  shrewd,  clear-seeing  girl,  and  had  far  more 
penetration  into  character  than  belles  and  beauties  are 
generally  thought  to  possess.  For  the  whole  tribe  of 
American  dandies,  with  their  disfiguring  moustaches 
and  imperials,  she  had  a  most  hearty  contempt.  Hair 
never  made  up,  with  her,. for  the  lack  of  brains. 

But,  as  she  was  an  heiress  in  expectancy,  and 
moved  in  the  most  fashionable  society,  and  was,  with 
all,  a  gay  and  sprightly  girl,  Kate,  as  a  natural  conse- 
quence, drew  around  her  the  gilded  moths  of  society, 
not  a  few  of  whom  got  their  wings  scorched,  on  ap- 
proaching too  near. 


342          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

Many  aspired  to  be  lovers,  and  some,  more  ardent 
than  the  rest,  boldly  pressed  forward  and  claimed  Her 
hand.  But  Kate  did  not  believe  in  the  doctrine  that 
love  begets  love  in  all  cases.  Were  this  so,  it  was  clear 
that  she  would  have  to  love  half  a  dozen,  for  at  least 
that  number  came  kneeling  to  her  with  their  hearts  in 
their  hands. 

Mr.  Darlington  was  a  merchant.  Among  his  clerks 
was  the  son  of  an  old  friend,  who,  in  dying  some  years 
before,  had  earnestly  solicited  him  to  have  some  care 
over  the  lad,  who  at  his  death  would  become  friendless. 
In  accordance  with  this  last  request,  Mr.  Darlington 
took  the  boy  into  his  counting-room ;  and,  in  order 
that  he  might,  with  more  fidelity,  redeem  his  pro- 
mise to  the  dying  father,  also  received  him  into  his 
family. 

Edwin  Lee  proved  himself  not  ungrateful  for  the 
kindness.  In  a  few  years  he  became  one  of  Mr. 
Darlington's  most  active,  trustworthy  and  intelligent 
clerks ;  while  his  kind,  modest,  gentlemanly  deportmen 
at  home,  won  the  favor  and  confidence  of  all  the  family 
With  Edwin,  Kate  grew  up  as  with  a  brother.  Their 
intercourse  was  of  the  most  frank  and  confiding  char- 
acter. 

But  there  came,  at  last,  a  change.  Kate  from  a 
graceful  sweet-tempered,  affectionate  girl,  stepped  forth, 


THE    HEIRESS.  343 

almost  in  a  day,  it  seemed  to  Edwin,  a  full-grown, 
lovely  woman,  into  whose  eyes  he  could  not  look  as 
steadily  as  before,  and  on  whose  beautiful  face  he  could 
no  longer  gaze  with  the  calmness  of  feeling  he  had 
until  now  enjoyed. 

For  awhile,  Edwin  could  not  understand  the  reason 
of  this  change.  Kate  was  the  same  to  him ;  and 
yet  not  the**ame.  There  was  no  distance — no  reserve 
on  her  part ;  and  yet,  when  he  came  into  her  presence, 
he  felt  his  heart  beat  more  quickly ;  and  when  she 
looked  him  steadily  in  the  face,  his  eyes  would  droop, 
involuntarily,  beneath  her  gaze. 

Suddenly,  Edwin  awoke  to  a  full  realization  of  the 
fact  that  Kate  was  to  him  more  than  a  gentle  friend  or 
a  sweet  sister.  From  that  moment,  he  became  reserved 
in  his  intercourse  with  her ;  and,  after  a  short  time, 
firmly  made  up  his  mind  that  it  was  his  duty  to  retire 
from  the  family  of  his  benefactor.  The  thought  of 
endeavoring  to  win  the  heart  of  the  beautiful  girl,  whom 
he  had  always  loved  as  a  sister,  and  now  almost  wor- 
shipped, was  not  for  a  moment  entertained.  To  him 
there  would  have  been  so  much  of  ingratitude  in  this, 
and  so  much  that  involved  a  base  violation  of  Mr. 
Darlington's  confidence,  that  he  would  have  suffered 
anything  rather  than  be  guilty  of  such  an  act. 

But  he  could  not  leave  the  home  where  he  had  been 


844         HEART   HISTORIES   AND   LIFE   PICTURES. 

so  kindly  regarded  for  years,  without  offering  some  rea- 
son that  would  be  satisfactory.  The  true  reason,  he 
could  not,  of  course,  give.  After  looking  at  the  subject 
in  various  lights,  and.  debating  it  for  a  long  time,  Edwin 
could  see  no  way  in  which  he  could  withdraw  from  the 
family  of  Mr.  Darlington,  without  betraying  his  secret, 
unless  he  were  to  leave  the  city  at  the  same  time.  He, 
therefore,  sought  and  obtained  the  situation  of  super- 
cargo  in  a  vessel  loading  for  Valparaiso. 

When  Edwin  announced  this  fact  to  Mr.  Darlington, 
the  merchant  was  greatly  surprised,  and  appeared  hurt 
that  the  young  man  should  take  such  a  step  without  a 
word  of  consultation  with  him.  Edwin  tried  to  explain  ; 
but,  as  he  had  to  conceal  the  real  truth,  his  explanation 
rather  tended  to  make  things  appear  worse  than  better. 

Kate  heard  the  announcement  with  no  less  surprise 
than  her  father.  The  thing  was  so  sudden,  so  unL  okcd 
for,  and,  moreover,  so  uncalled  for,  that  she  could  not 
understand  it.  In  order  to  take  away  any  pecuniary 
reason  for  the  step  he  was  about  to  take,  Mr.  Darling- 
ton, after  holding  a  long  conversation  with  Edwin, 
made  him  offers  far  more  advantageous  than  his  pro- 
posed expedition  could  be  to  him,  viewed  in  any  light, 
But  he  made  them  in  vain.  Edwin  acknowledged  the 
kindness,  in  the  warmest  terms,  but  remained  firm  in 
his  purpose  to  sail  with  the  vessel. 


THE   HEIRESS.  345 

u  Why  will  you  go  away  and  leave  us,  Edwin  ?"  said 
Kate,  one  evening  when  they  happened  to  be  alone, 
about  two  weeks  before  his  expected  departure.  "  I  do 
think  it  very  strange  I" 

Edwin  had  avoided,  as  much  as  possible,  being  alone 
with  Kate,  a  fact  which  the  observant  maiden  had  not 
failed  to  notice.  Their  being  alone  now  was  from  acci- 
dent ratherthan  design  on  his  part. 

"  I  think  it  right  for  me  to  go,  Kate,"  the  young  man 
replied,  as  calmly  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  speak 
under  the  circumstances.  "  And  when  I  think  it  right 
to  do  a  thing,  I  never  hesitate  or  look  back." 

"  You  have  a  reason,  for  going,  of  course.  Why 
then,  not  tell  it  frankly  ?  Are  we  not  all  your  friends  ?" 

Edwin  was  silent,  and  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  floor, 
while  a  deeper  flush  than  usual  was  upon  his  face. 
Kate  looked  at  him  fixedly.  Suddenly  a  new  thought 
flashed  through  her  mind,  and  the  color  on  her  own 
cheeks  grew  warmer.  Iler  voice  from  that  moment 
was  lower  and  more  tender ;  and  her  eyes,  as  she  con- 
ersed  with  the  young  man,  were  never  a  moment  from 
his  face.  As  for  him,  his  embarrassment  in  her  pres- 
ence was  never  more  complete,  and  he  betrayed  the 
•ecret  that  was  in  his  heart  even  while  he  felt  the  most 
earnest  to  conceal  it.  Conscious  of  this,  he  excused 
himself  and  retired  as  soon  as  it  was  possible  to  do  so. 


246    "    HEAKT   HISTORIES   AND   LIFE   PICTURES. 

Kate  sat  thoughtful  for  some  time  after  he  had  left. 
Then  rising  up,  she  went,  with  a  firm  step  to  her 
father's  room. 

"  I  have  found  out,"  she  said,  speaking  with  great 
»eif-composure,  "  the  reason  why  Edwin  persists  in 
going  away." 

"  Ah  !  what  is  the  reason,  Kate  ?  I  would  give 
much  to  know." 

"  He  is  in  love,"  replied  Kate,  promptly. 

"  In  love  !     How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"  I  made  the  discovery  to-night." 

"  Love  should  keep  him  at  home,  not  drive  him 
away,"  said  Mr.  Darlington. 

M  But  he  loves  hopelessly,"  returned  the  maiden. 
"  He  is  poor,  and  the  object  of  his  regard  belongs  to  a 
wealthy  family." 

"  And  her  friends  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.* 

UI  am 'not  so  sure  of  that.  But  he  formed  an 
acquaintance  with  the  young  lady  under  circumstances 
that  would  make  it  mean,  in  his  eyes,  to  urge  any 
claims  upon  her  regard." 

"  Then  honor  as  well  as  Icte  takes  him  away." 

"  Honor  in  fact ;  not  love.  Love  would  make  him 
stay,"  replied  the  maiden  with  a  sparkling  eye,  and 
•omething  of  proud  elevation  in  the  tones  of  her  voice! 


THE    HEIRESS.  '347 

A  faint  suspicion  of  the  truth  now  came  stealing  on 
the  mind  of  Mr.  Darlington. 

"  Does  the  lady  know  of  his  preference  for  her  P  he 
asked. 

""  Not  through  any  word  or  act  of  his,  designed  tc 
communicate  a  knowledge  of  the  fact,"  replied  Kate, 
her  eyes  falling  under  the  earnest  look  Dent  upon  her 
by  Mr.  Darlington. 

"  Has  he  made  you  his  confidante  P 
.  "  No,  sir.     I  doubt  if  the  secret  has  ever  passed  his 
lips."     Kate's  face  was  beginning  to  crimson,  but  she 
drove  back  the  tell-tale  blood  with  a  strong  effort  of 
the  will. 

"  Then  how  came  you  possessed  of  it,"  inquired  the 
father. 

M  The  blood  came  back  to  her  face  with  a  rush,  and 
she  bent  her  head  so  that  her  dark  glossy  curls  fell 
over  and  partly  concealed  it  In  a  moment  or  two  she 
had  regained  her  self-possession,  and  looking  up  she 
answered, 

"  Secrets  like  this  do  not  always  need  oral  or  written 
language  to  make  them  known.  Enough,  father,  that 
I  have  discovered  the  fact  that  his  heart  is  deeply  im 
bued  with  a  passion  for  one  ^ho  knows  well  his  virtues 
—his  pure,  true  heart — his  manly  sense  of  honor' 
with  a  passion  for  one  who  has  looked  upon  him  UL 


348          HEART    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE    PICTURES. 

now  as  a  brother,  but  who  henceforth  must  regard  him 
with  a  different  and  higher  feeling." 

Kate's  voice  trembled.  As  she  uttered  the  last  few 
words,  she  lost  control  of  herself,  and  bent  forward,  and 
hid  her  face  upon  her  father's  arm. 

Mr.  Darlington,  as  might  well  be  supposed,  was  taken 
altogether  by  surprise  at  so  unexpected  an  announce- 
ment The  language  used  by  his  daughter  needed  no 
interpretation.  She  was  the  maiden  beloved  by  his 
clerk. 

"  Kate,"  said  he,  after  a  moment  or  two  of  hurried 
reflection,  "this  is  a  very  serious  matter.  Edwin  is 
only  a  poor  clerk,  and  you-*-'' 

"  And  I,"  said  Kate,  rising  up,  and  taking  the  words 
from  her  father,  "  and  I  am  the  daughter  of  a  man  who 
can  appreciate  what  is  excellent  in  even  those  who  are 
humblest  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Father,  is  not  Ed- 
win far  superior  to  the  artificial  men  who  flutter  around 
every  young  lady  who  now  makes  her  appearance  in 
the  circle  where  we  move  ?  Knowing  him  as  you  do,  I 
am  sure  you  will  say  yes." 

«  But,  Kate " 

"  Father,  don't  let  us  argue  this  point.  Do  you  want 
Edwin  to  go  away !"  And  the  young  girl  laid  her 
hand  upon  her  parent,  and  looked  him  in  the  face  with 
unresisting  affection. 


THE    HEIRESS.  349 

"  No  dear ;  I  certainly  don't  wish  him  to  go." 

Nor  do  I,"  returned  the  maiden,  as  she  leaned  for- 
ward again,  and  laid  her  face  upon  his  arm.  In  a  little 
while  she  arose,  and,  with  her  countenance  turned  partly 
away,  said — 

"  Tell  him  not  to  go,  father '' 

And  with  these  words  she  retired  from  the  room. 

On  the  next  evening,  as  Edwin  was  sitting  alone  in 
one  of  the  drawing-rooms,  thinking  on  the  long  night 
of  absence  that  awaited  him,  Mr.  Darlington  came  in, 
accompanied  by  Kate.  They  seated  themselves  near 
the  young  man,  who  showed  some  sense  of  embarrass- 
ment. There  was  no  suspense,  however,  for  Mr.  Dar- 
lington said — 

M  Edwin,  we  none  of  us  wish  you  to  go  away.  You 
know  that  I  have  urged  every  consideration  in  my 
power,  and  now  I  have  consented  to  unite  with  Kate  in 
renewing  a  request  for  you  to  remain.  Up  to  this  time 
jou  have  declined  giving  a  satisfactory  reason  for  your 
sudden  resolution  to  1  ,iave ;  but  a  reason  is  due  to  us— 
tc  me  in  particular — a-id  I  now  most  earnestly  conjure 
you  to  give  it.'' 

The  young  man  at  this  became  greatly  agitated,  but 
did  not  venture  to  make  a  reply. 

u  You  are  still  silent  on  the  subject,''  said  Mr.  Bar- 
Jogton. 


850         HEAKT    HISTORIES    AND    LIFE   PICTURES. 

u  He  will  not  go,  father."  said  Kate,  in  a  tender,  ap- 
pealing voice.  "  I  know  he  will  not  go.  We  cannot 
let  him  go.  Kinder  friends  he  will  not  find  anywhere 
than  he  has  here.  And  we  shall  miss  him  from  our 
.ome  circle.  There  will  be  a  vacant  place  at  our  board. 
Will  you  be  happier  away,  Edwin  ?" 

The  last  sentence  was  uttered  in  a  tone  of  sisterly 
affection. 

"Happier!"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  thrown  off 
his  guard.  "Happier!  I  shall  be  wreiched  while 
away." 

"  Then  why  go  ?"  returned  Kate,  tenderly. 

At  this  stage  of  affairs,  Mr.  Darlington  got  up,  and 
retired ;  and  we  think  we  had  as  well  retire  with  the 
reader. 

The  good  ship  "  Leonora"  sailed  in  about  ten  days. 
She  had  a  supercargo  on  board ;  but  his  name  was  not 
Edwin  Lee. 

Fashionable  people  were  greatly  surprised  when  the 
beautiful  Kate  Darlington  married  her  father's  clerk; 
and  moustached  dandies  curled  their  lip,  but  it  matter- 
ed not  to  Kate.  She  had  married  a  man  in  whose 
worth,  affection,  and  manliness  of  character,  she  could 
repose  a  rational  confidence.  If  not  a  fashionable,  she 
was  a  hapuy  wife. 


iJST   OF   VALUABLE   AND   POrtJIAR   BOOKS. 


19 


THE 


BATTLE  FIELDS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

COMPRISING    DESCRIPTIONS   OF   TUB 

Different   Battles,  Sieges,  and  other  Events  of 
the  War  of  Independence. 

INTERSPERSED  WITH  CHARACTERISTIC  ANECDOTES. 

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OOZtTTElSTTS. 


The  Sergeant  and  the  Indians. 
Burning  of  the  Gaspee. 
The  Great  Tea  Kiot. 
The  First  Prayer  in  Congress. 
Battle  of  Lexington. 
Fight  at  Concord  Bridge. 
Capture  of  Ticonderoga. 
Battle  of  Bunker's  Hill. 
Attack  on  Quebec. 
Attack  on  Sullivan's  Island. 
The    Declaration    of    Indepen- 
dence. 

Firmness  of  Washington. 
Capture  of  General  Lee. 
Capture  of  General  Preseott. 
General  Prescott  Whipped. 
Battle  of  Trenton. 
Battle  of  Princeton. 
General  Lafayette. 
Battle  of  Brandywine. 
Battle  of  Germantowu. 
Battle  of  Red  Bank. 


Burgoyne's  Invasion — Battle  of 
Benningtou. 

Heroic  Exploit  of  Peter  Fran- 
cisco. 

Andrew  Jackson. 

Siege  of  Yorktown — Surreudei 
of  Cornwallis. 

George  Rogers  Clarke. 

Death  of  Captain  Biddle. 

Patriotism  of  Mother  Bailey. 

The  Dutchman  and  the  Rake. 

Simon  Kenton. 

The  Murder  of  Miss  M'Crea. 

Massacre  at  Wyoming. 

Treason  of  Arnold. 

Patriotism  of  Elizabeth  Zane 

Stony  Point. 

John  Paul  Jones. 

Battle  of  King's  Mountain. 

Burning  of  Colonel  Crawford. 

Battle  of  the  Cowpens. 

Baron  Steuben. 

Mrs.  Bozarth. 


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From  the  Table  of  Contents  we  select  the  following  as 
samples  of  the  Style  and  Interest  of  the  Work. 

Baiting  for  an  Alligator — Morning  among  the  Rocky  Mountains- 
Encounter  with  Shosliouees — A  Grizzly  Bear — Fight  and  terrible 
Result — Fire  on  the  Mountains — Narrow  Escape — The  Beaver  Re- 
gion—  Trapping  Beaver  —  A  Journey  and  Hunt  through  New 
Mexico — Start  for  South  America — Hunting  in  the  Forests  of 
Brazil — Hunting  on  the  Pampas — A  Hunting  Expedition  into  the 
interior  of  Africa — Chase  of  the  Rhinoceros — Chase  of  an  Elephant 
— The  Roar  of  the  Lion — Herds  of  Wild  Elephants — Lions  attacked 
by  Bechuanas — Arrival  in  the  Region  of  the  Tiger  and  the  Ele 
phant — Our  First  Elephant  Hunt  in  India — A  Boa  Constrictor — A 
Tiger — A  Lion — Terrible  Conflict — Elephant  Catching — Hunting 
the  Tiger  with  Elephants — Crossing  the  Pyrenees — Encounter 
with  A  Bear — A  Pigeon  Hunt  on  the  Ohio — A  Wild-Hog  Hunt  in 
Texas — Hunting  the  Black-tailed  Deer. 


HUNTING  SCENES  IN  THE  WILDS  OF  1FRICJ. 


COMPRISING 


The   Thrilling  Adventures  of  Gumming,  Harris, 

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[The  author  of  this  volume.  Mrs.  M.  Q.  CLARKE,  is  well  known  as 
the  editress  of  the  "Mother's  Magazine,"  one  of  the  oldest  and 
best  Magazines  published.  This  volume  contains  her  bes* 
Sketches  in  Prose  and  Poetry,  and  should  be  in  every  library  in 
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OR, 

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[The  two  following  volumes,  "The  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  "Life 
of  Christ  and  his  Apostles,"  are  from  new  stereotype  plates,  and 
are  pronounced  by  all  the  best  Editions  published  of  these  popu- 
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22 


LIST  OF  VALUABLE  AND  POPULAR  BOOKS. 


"LIVING   AND  LOVING." 

A  COLLECTION   OF   SKETCHES, 

BY  MISS  V,  F,  TQWNSEND. 

Large  12ino.,  with  fine  Steel  Portrait  of  the  Author.     Bound  in 
cloth.     Price  $1.00. 


Muriel. 

To  Arthur,  Asleep. 

The  Memory  Bells. 

Mend  the  Breeches. 

The  Sunshine  after  the  Rain. 

My  Picture. 

Little  Mercy  is  Dead. 

The  Old  Letters. 

The  Fountain  very  Far  Down. 

The  Rain  in  the  Afternoon. 

The  Blossom  in  the  Wilderness. 

The  Mistake. 

October. 

Twice  Loving. 

The  Old  Mirror.       • 

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Now. 

The  Door  in  the  Heart. 

My  Step-Mother. 

The  Broken  Threat. 

Glimpses  inside  the  Cars. 

The  Old  Stove. 

The  Old  Rug. 

The  "Making-Up." 

Next  to  Me. 

Only  a  Dollar. 

The  Temptation  and  the  Tri- 
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Extracts  from  a  Valedictory 
Poem. 

December. 


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We  might  say  many  things  in  favor  of  this  delightful  publication,  but  we  deem  it  an 
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THE  DESERTED  FAMILY; 

OB, 

THE    WANDERINGS    OF    AN    OUTCAST. 

By  PAUL  CREVTOIC.     Price  $1.00. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000  031  286    8 


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